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

by Damien Black

  At any rate, alarm bells should have been set ringing when Abrexta rode up to the King’s palace at Ongist eighteen moons ago. Instead the guards had let her through without a word of complaint, as if she were a member of the Royal Clan. Soon after she had gained an audience with the King himself. He had been taken with her immediately, and taken her into his bed.

  It was not long after that that strange things started to happen. Trusted advisers were summarily dismissed, to be replaced with non-entities, men ill qualified for the high office of state. The King began to grow indolent, locking himself away in his private chambers and disporting himself with his mistress and a growing pack of toadies and hangers-on. The royal treasury’s coffers, previously so well tended, began to be emptied, lavished on extravagant feasts and tournaments.

  Tournaments! That was the worst of it. Tourneys were all well and good when there were no real wars to fight, but now they needed every strong knight more than ever to resist Slánga and his highlanders. The thought of the King’s knights jousting on the plains before Ongist while Cadwy and his witch mistress watched from his pleasure barge on the River Rundle made Braxus feel sick.

  People had complained. Loyal courtiers, stalwart vassals of the King. Most had come to grief. Those Abrexta thought she could charm had been admitted to a private audience with her, to air their grievances. They had soon emerged with an entirely different disposition. Those that she could not ensorcell had simply disappeared. Whether by her own dark crafts or at the hands of hired blades, no one was quite sure.

  What was sure was this – within a year of Abrexta presenting herself before the Seat of High Kings, half the noble subjects of the King’s Ward were dancing to her tune. The other half were deadly afraid. As for the commoners, their lot grew more miserable by the day, as one harsh tax after another was levied on the peasantry and townsfolk to pay for the King’s suddenly extravagant lifestyle. There had already been several uprisings in Umbria, all of them brutally quashed.

  Put bluntly, the royal realm was in a royal mess.

  ‘You’re right of course,’ Lord Braun replied, acknowledging his son’s objections. ‘Several brave men have already tried. Sir Axel of Wieran was hanged ten days ago for trying to murder her at a feast held to celebrate the latest tourney. And Solon, Prior of the Argolian Monastery at Kilucan, was impaled along with a dozen other men after being found guilty of conspiring to capture Abrexta and put her in cold irons. Now the Argolian Order faces closure across the Kingdom – for national security of course.’

  Lord Braun sneered in disgust. Unlike his only son, he was a pious man, and respected the monks of St Argo. Evidence of his devotion could be seen about his solar: in place of the usual bearskins and crossed weapons its walls were decorated with great vellum hangings bearing quotations from Scripture. It was said the old lord knew all of them by heart.

  Braxus knew only too well that rumour was perfectly true – as he had learned to his chagrin when his father had tried to get his heir to follow suit and learn them all as a boy. That hadn’t gone well. Braxus could recall the lyrics to hundreds of songs great and small at will, but not a word of holy scripture had ever found its way into his comely head. Yet another bone of contention between them.

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked the young knight helplessly. ‘I mean to say... the only way we could get to Abrexta is by... well, by staging a coup...’

  His father smiled for the first time that night. ‘Exactly,’ he said, his eyes suddenly glinting in the firelight.

  Braxus blinked. He must have misheard.

  ‘I said “a coup”, father – I wasn’t being entirely serious. You know - ’

  ‘Oh you may not have been, son of mine, but I am being deadly serious.’ A dangerous tone had entered his father’s voice.

  ‘But... we can’t overthrow him,’ protested Braxus. ‘Even with things the state they’re in, it would be nothing short of high treason, our lives and lands would be forfeit - ’

  ‘They’ll be forfeit anyway!’ roared his father, suddenly losing his composure. ‘What d’you think will happen to us in the next few months, if things go on unchecked the way they have been? Mac Bryon, Tíerchán and all their men will overrun these lands. The lords of Dréuth and their vassals shall fall to a man! Then there’ll be nothing to stop them sweeping south to attack Umbria! This kingdom is on the brink of ruin – and I for one will not stand by and do nothing about it!’

  His father paused. The crackling fire sounded loud in the sudden silence. Braxus swallowed, thought carefully. He and his father had their differences, but he had to acknowledge it – the old man was right.

  Nodding slowly and taking a deep breath, the heir of Gaellentir said: ‘All right. Let’s say you’re right. How do we do it? We’ve our hands more than full keeping Slánga’s lot at bay – Umbria’s under the King’s, or should I say Abrexta’s, thrall. That leaves the southern reaches of the Kingdom. But they’ll do little to help – this state of play suits them too well. They’ve few mountain clans to worry about down there – all the ranges south of Roarkil are long settled by lowlanders. A weak king is good for them – it means they can run their wards to their hearts’ content as they see fit! So even if we wanted to, we can’t do it!’

  His father smiled again, a crafty smile. Braxus felt sure he did not like it.

  ‘What you say is true. But you seem to be forgetting one thing, son of mine.’

  Braxus blinked again, puzzled. ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Our neighbours to the east. For two generations now, we have been at peace with the Northlendings. They are no longer our implacable foe, as they once were. Their King is a wise and just ruler. Perhaps he can be persuaded to help us in our direst need.’

  Now it was Braxus’s turn to smile, but he didn’t. He laughed. ‘The Northlendings?! With all due respect father, but for once I’d say it’s you who’s been quaffing too much mead! How on earth do you plan to persuade the King of the Northlendings to help us? Oh aye, we’re at peace with them, but that hardly makes us bosom friends! Why, we still don’t even trade with them as much as we should.’

  ‘Ah, there you have partly answered your own question, son of mine,’ his father replied craftily. Reaching for another scroll, he unfurled it and handed it to his son. ‘Here is a contract drawn up, of trade terms and concessions that we would grant to the Northlendings, for sending a contingent of knights to our aid. Generous terms on all consignments of Thraxian mead and furs from Dréuth, not to mention iron mining concessions in the Whaelen Hills – and likewise for extracting ebonite from the Brekken Ranges, if we can wrest those from Slánga after we deal with the King.’

  Braxus scanned the vellum with bulging eyes. Together with his father’s words, it was a lot to take in. All the terms and conditions were there, drawn up by his father’s scrivener. At the bottom of the document were three signatures. He recognised his father’s own spiky hand. The other two were written by Tarneogh and Cael.

  He looked up from the contract. ‘You... you’ve got the other lords of Dréuth to agree? How long have you been planning this?’

  ‘For some weeks now. The time is ripe. King Freidheim’s realm has enjoyed peace for many a year now. The Northlendings are a hardy lot, as I know only too well from experience. Fighting is what they do best – a peaceful realm is a joyous thing, but it can be frustrating for an ambitious knight. Give the youngbloods of Northalde a chance to test their mettle, and I’m sure they’ll jump at the chance. For King Freidheim’s part, I’m sure he’d be only too glad to get some of his more truculent vassals out from under his nose. Why, the Southern Kingdoms use the so-called Pilgrim Wars for just the same purpose.’

  His father spat into the hearth. His contempt for the notion of holy war was well known, and shared by most inhabitants of the Northern Kingdoms.

  Turning back to the vellum Braxus scanned it again. He nodded to himself as he did. Yes – he had to admit, this plan made sense, in theory at least. But it still trouble
d him nonetheless.

  ‘All right, say it works. Say Freidheim takes you up on your offer. We’re still committing high treason. To kill a king - ’

  ‘Heavenly thunder, did I say anything about killing the King?’ his father interjected sharply. ‘We’re not going to kill Cadwy, you fool! No, we’re going to kill as many of his ensorcelled knights as it takes to get to that bitch of a witch he calls concubine. Then we’re going to try her and burn her at the stake – or hang her at the very least. Kill the witch, break the spell. You don’t need to be an Argolian to know how that works.’

  Braxus nodded again. Once again, he had to admit his father was making sense – as bold and dangerous as his plan was.

  ‘Once we get rid of her it should, Reus willing, bring the King to his senses,’ Lord Braun continued. ‘Then we can restore him to his proper throne – right now it’s clear from everything we’ve been hearing out of Umbria that his will is no longer his own. That makes this Abrexta – and everyone who serves her – guilty of high treason, not us. The Argolians have been clandestinely apprised of our intentions, as has the High Perfect at Ongist. They will support our justification once the thing is done.’

  Braxus wasn’t entirely surprised to hear the Temple was on side. A pagan witch in control of a Palomedian kingdom, even a not particularly devout one like Thraxia, was definitely not in its interests.

  ‘All right, I’m convinced,’ he said. ‘It’s certainly risky, but at least it gives us a chance of survival. And who will you send with this offer to the King of the Northlendings?’

  His father favoured him with another wan smile. Braxus knew the answer before he spoke it.

  ‘Why, you of course, son of mine.’

  CHAPTER II

  A War Against Water

  Sir Tarlquist and his company were a day out of Staerkvit when they learned of Blakelock’s surrender. Thule’s vanguard had reached it some days after his main army invested Salmor, the castle they were riding to save. Blakelock was poorly garrisoned, and its old castellan could not have hoped to conduct a successful siege. Better to yield that brave knights might be taken for ransom and live to fight another day.

  Or that was the kinder view taken by some of the white ravens in the hundred-strong sortie sent to relieve Salmor. Others muttered darkly that Sir Ulfheim was a coward and a traitor for giving up the castle without a fight.

  Foremost among these was Sir Wolmar, but then such an unforgiving view was typical of the arrogant princeling.

  ‘If I had my way, he’d be hanged for dereliction of his duties,’ spat the High Commander’s son as they warmed themselves at a campfire on the second night of their journey. ‘Ulfheim is weak. He has been tested and found wanting.’

  Sir Tarlquist rolled his eyes. Best to nip this one in the bud. There was enough dissent over the matter brewing in the ranks without the idiot princeling making it worse.

  ‘And I suppose you feel the same way about your cousin, the King’s royal son and heir, Prince Wolfram?’ he queried pointedly. ‘He and his men had no choice but to flee when faced with overwhelmingly superior numbers. The last we heard he’s fallen back towards Linden, to stiffen the garrison there. But I suppose that still makes him a coward in your eyes too?’

  An uneasy silence fell about the company. Sir Tarlquist suspected that many of the knights in his charge did disapprove of the royal heir’s decision to fall back – after all, were they not even now riding to face odds as great as those that had confronted Wolfram?

  ‘How could His Royal Highness have done otherwise, when presented with the castellan’s abject cowardice?’ spluttered Wolmar, recovering quickly. He glared at his commander, his green eyes menacing slits in the half-light of the campfires.

  Tarlquist glared back at him. If it were not for his duties as commander and the princeling’s royal blood, he would have taken Wolmar to the lists and given him the sound thrashing he deserved long ago. He was about to reply when Sir Aronn interjected.

  ‘You’re a fool to talk so, Sir Wolmar,’ said the burly knight, his scarred cheeks flaming scarlet in the fire’s heat. ‘At a time like this we should be uniting, not causing trouble amongst ourselves. We’re outnumbered enough as it is.’

  ‘Aronn has the right of it,’ said Tarlquist, quickly picking up the thread. ‘This is no time for casting base aspersions on the honour of subjects loyal to our King. We’ve plenty of disloyal ones to deal with, as the good knight says.’

  ‘Pah!’ Wolmar spat into the fire to show what he thought of that, before stalking off to check on his supplies.

  ‘That man is trying my patience by the second,’ said Sir Aronn between gritted teeth. ‘If he goes on like this much longer, I swear there’ll be another civil war – between the King’s loyal subjects!’

  ‘And that’s why it’s so important not to rise to his bait,’ replied Sir Tarlquist. ‘Try to stay cool, in that hot head of yours, Aronn. When he talks like that it’s best just to ignore him. Don’t give him the ammunition he craves – a bow without an arrow is a useless weapon. The same goes for the rest of you,’ he added gruffly, addressing the fifteen or so knights gathered around the fire.

  Aronn was about to reply when the sound of galloping horses alerted them. As one they drew swords and seized torches. All about them the rest of the sortie did likewise: its four campfires were ringed with steel by the time the riders approached from across the darkened plains.

  It was only Sir Torgun and his men, returning from their reconnoitre as expected, but in times like these it was best to be prepared for any eventuality.

  Dismounting, Torgun stepped up to the main campfire to debrief the four commanders including Tarlquist. The other knights gathered around to listen to his report.

  ‘It is as we feared,’ said the towering blond knight. ‘Thule has a third army, besides the two investing Salmor and Blakelock, ravaging the countryside as we speak, laying waste and burning. We came on two survivors fleeing north. They say their entire village was burnt, its occupants put to the sword.’

  Cries of anger resounded about the camp. Most knights of the White Valravyn had a strong sense of justice, and at least tried to hold to the Code of Chivalry. Others like Wolmar would merely have been outraged at an attack on the King’s property.

  ‘Who commands them?’ asked Sir Øren. He was a heavy-set knight in early middle age, and in charge of the entire sortie of four companies. His granite face looked even grimmer than usual.

  Sir Torgun shook his head. ‘The peasants we questioned didn’t know for sure. One of the more prominent southron barons, they think. Lord Johan of Orack perhaps, or Lord Aelrød of Saltcaste – we can’t be sure.’

  ‘This sounds more like Johan’s work,’ muttered Sir Larson, another company commander. ‘That man’s reputation for bloodthirsty violence long precedes this war.’

  ‘It makes little difference who is behind it,’ replied Sir Øren. ‘This is a war of attrition, and such scorched-earth tactics are only to be expected from men capable of treason. Torgun, do we have any idea of the whereabouts of this third army?’

  Torgun shook his head again, a sorrowful look on his ruggedly handsome face. ‘Would that we did,’ he answered. ‘Most likely they are in the vicinity. We may even encounter them on the way to Salmor, though more likely we will miss them, given they appear to be headed north.’

  ‘We must seek them out!’ cried one young knight. ‘We are knights of the White Valravyn! We cannot let this injustice go unchecked and unpunished!’ A chorus of hearty throats voiced their approval.

  ‘Be that as it may, noblemen, orders are orders,’ replied Sir Øren, raising a hand for silence. ‘Our mission is to relieve Salmor, if we can. That means we must press on regardless, however painful it is to leave the King’s subjects unprotected.’

  ‘But we’re sworn to protect those subjects!’ cried another knight, to a chorus of ‘ayes’. Tarlquist felt a tightness in his gut. Many of the younger men had never experienced the horrors
of a full-scale war before. Young idealists who were used to dealing with villains and lawbreakers in smaller numbers, where problems presented themselves one at a time. This kind of dissent might not be easy to quell.

  ‘Yes, we are sworn to protect them,’ said Øren firmly. ‘And that’s precisely why we must stick to our mission. Right now Thule’s armies have a free run over the southern reaches of the King’s Dominions precisely because the greatest castle protecting them is pinned down. Blakelock has surrendered, Rookhammer is next – its garrison is bigger but even so its castellan Sir Aelfric won’t be able to hold off Thule’s vanguard for long. That’s why it’s imperative that we relieve Salmor – if our plan succeeds we can muster with Kelmor’s forces and harry the rebels in the rear. Either that or we could march across the Thule and give the Young Pretender a taste of his own medicine.’

  That got a mixed reaction. Wolmar and his cronies clearly liked the latter idea very much; but many of the more decent knights clearly found the realities of war distasteful.

  ‘We didn’t join the Order to slaughter civilians!’ yelled the first knight who had spoken up. ‘Even if they are ruled by traitors! And as for your first suggestion, with respect commander, by the time we relieve Salmor and turn north again they’ll have ravaged half the countryside hereabouts!’

  Øren nodded, grimly acknowledging the truth of those words. ‘Aye they will,’ he said sadly. ‘War is full of painful decisions, and not all of them lead to glory. But if Thule retains Salmor he’ll have a permanent foothold in the southern Dominions. That will mean the entire stretch of King’s land as far as Linden will be all but lost. And then he’ll be able to join his forces and invest that too. And if he takes Linden he’ll have all the lands between the Thule and the Vyborg in his grasp. I don’t need to spell out what disaster that would mean for the kingdom.’