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

by Damien Black

  Horskram frowned and looked thoughtful. ‘Possibly not. Our trusty swords are much less psychically attuned than we are. Probably just as well for them.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are we... in greater danger if we can hear them?’

  ‘Just remember what I said to you all when we first entered: as much as you possibly can, do not look upon the forest, do not listen for its noises, do not try to comprehend it! The more you allow your senses to interact with its denizens, the more chance you have of becoming ensnared by its evil.’

  ‘Ensnared, yes, but by what kind of evil?’

  But Horskram shook his head and refused to answer, instead casting his eyes to the dark soil of the forest trail as it led them blindly onwards.

  Vaskrian stumbled along the winding trail as if in a dream. It was one he would fain have awoken from, for the ghastly forest that undulated around them was likely to drive him mad if he paid it too much heed.

  Resolutely he did his best to remember what the wise monk had told them, and tried to think of castle battlements, courtyards and tourneys – anything familiar that he could cram into his troubled mind. Once or twice he glanced over at Sir Branas for reassurance, but the old knight’s ashen face did little to inspire him with courage.

  He could hear no sound besides the creaking of the shapeshifting trees accompanied by the eerie susurration of their dead leaves, which seemed to brush against them menacingly as they passed by. Together they made for a sinister medley, occasionally punctuated by a crack of briars as the sedge moved in to hinder their way, their alien flowers puckering grotesquely. It was as if the forest itself were registering its disapproval of intruders.

  And yet the squire couldn’t shake the feeling that some of the denizens of Tintagael were only too delighted to have them under its eaves...

  Like everyone, he knew the legend of the Thirteen Knights of King Thorsvald: he’d seen the castle troubadour Thoros perform it on several occasions. At the time it had just been one more entertainment to enjoy during cold winter nights in the great hall of Hroghar; but now the fate of those brave men evoked by the cogent lyrics made for a sinister recollection – if the best knights of old had met their end here, what chance did the four of them have? At least they had a couple of Argolian friars with them – they knew how to fight the spirits of the Other Side. That was some consolation at least...

  The trees shimmered around him, their boles warping obscenely. Vaskrian suppressed a shudder and tried to think about the time he had knocked Rutgar flat on his back – as if to defy him in this consoling thought, a low-hanging branch suddenly dipped in front of his face. Bringing up a tremulous arm he pushed it away, half expecting it whip back at him.

  As he struggled past it the branch receded. It was then that he noticed that no matter what shape the trees assumed the leaves were always the same – spiked like morning stars and of a lifeless iron grey hue. Oh well, at least that was a constant of sorts. He wondered, had the others noticed?

  It was impossible to tell how long they had been walking, but Adelko’s feet were sore when the mists began to thicken around them. It was of the same silvery hue as the interminable light, and he was unsure whether it was not simply the latter that was changing, becoming less transparent by the minute. It congealed steadily around them; Adelko fancied then that they were in the belly of a great amorphous creature, slowly being digested and absorbed into its monstrous bowels.

  He thought of the old Norric legends his master had mentioned that spoke of the vast World Serpent, which slept at the heart of the earth. The benighted Northland priests had predicted that one day it would stir from its chthonian lair, bringing about a second breaking of the world, far more ruinous even than the first.

  He shuddered at the thought, which was the last thing he needed right now; and it was then that he began to hear the whispering sounds grow clearer, reaching out to him across the penumbra of his consciousness.

  It was indeed a language he could not hope to understand, but the very sound of the words set his teeth on edge, their soft syllables deftly slicing through his composure like an assassin’s oiled knife. An alien tongue sent to murder his sanity... swiftly Adelko began repeating the Psalm of Fortitude, softly to himself at first, but then steadily louder with a growing conviction. When he reached the final set of verses he was almost shouting the words:

  Though I walk a crooked path through the darkened vale

  My feet shall not falter, nor my soul be corrupted

  For the King of Heaven shall not forsake His children!

  The wings of Morphonus will be my shield

  His celestial consort Oneira will bless my dreams

  Stygnos will be my strength; Virtus my resolve!

  The Betrayer’s words shall stick in his mouth

  For the manna of the archangels shall be my balm

  Against the poisoned words of his perfidy!

  The Almighty hears the prayers of strong and weak

  The archangels shall give them the wings to fly

  And though the road be broken it shall not hinder them!

  Though he was not sure that the ethereal voices tormenting him actually served the Fallen One, the Psalm made him feel better, and gradually the sacred words drowned out everything else.

  He had kept walking blindly throughout his recital, trusting to the Almighty, the Redeemer and St Ionus to guide him. And then suddenly he stopped and looked around.

  His companions were nowhere to be seen.

  Even his horse was gone: its reins must have slipped from his nerveless fingers as he struggled to retain possession of his mind against the baleful whisperings of the Faerie Kindred. At least the mist was starting to disperse somewhat... and now he could hear something altogether new up ahead, its soft gurgling calling him enticingly through diaphanous tendrils that parted invitingly.

  Stumbling onwards as if he were walking in his sleep he came suddenly upon a river. It bisected the woods, which had stopped shifting and now resembled the oaks he had first looked upon before adversity chased them into the cursed forest.

  Even now the skies remained hidden; the trees here contrived to stretch across the river on either side, their gnarled boughs forming rough stitches in a sylvan veil that steadfastly defied the natural world outside.

  Glancing down at the water Adelko shuddered: its stygian black depths offered no comfort, spurning life and light alike. Before him a trail of stepping stones traversed the murky stretch. Their grey surfaces, unnaturally polished and smooth, could be seen glinting beneath the bilious green moss that clung to them.

  The novice looked back but found nothing behind him, just an impenetrable wall of oak trees where the trail had been moments ago.

  Plucking up his courage he called out: ‘Master Horskram?’ His voice sounded thin and reedy. The words fell flat no sooner had they exited his mouth – he felt sure that even if his master had been standing right next to him they would not have reached his ears.

  Steeling his resolve he stepped on to the first stone. The river stopped, its flow ceasing as abruptly as a horse being reined in, the matt black waters rippling turgidly to and fro before lapsing sullenly into eerie stillness.

  Taking a deep breath he took another step. This time he didn’t slip, as he had done back in the Brekawood, for the moss was curiously dry.

  They want me to get across the river, he thought suddenly, and no sooner had this occurred to him than he found himself on the other side, a fresh pathway opening up for him.

  Unlike the trail they had been following this one ran straight as an arrow, and hastening along it Adelko could make out a white light ahead of him. He felt the ground gently rising beneath his weary feet, but some unknown force was now pushing him, nudging him onwards with an invisible hand both firm and gentle. The light up ahead grew steadily brighter. For a while it almost blinded him, but he pressed on regardless, until...

  Without warning the brightness receded, and the novice found himself in a tiny
clearing shielded from the sky by the intertwining branches. Directly in front of him sat his master on a rock, his quarterstaff nestled in the crook of his arm and his cowled head bowed – in thought, prayer or sleep, Adelko could not tell.

  ‘Master Horskram?’ he called softly. When his master did not reply, he repeated himself more loudly. Still the monk did not stir, remaining motionless on the rock. Was he even breathing? Slowly, Adelko stepped towards him...

  ‘Adelko! Stop right now! Don’t touch it!’

  The novice whirled, his heart leaping into his mouth. Standing behind him was another monk, dressed exactly as his master, the cowl of his habit pulled down over his head. The voice was unmistakeably Horskram’s, but it had a strange tinny timbre to it. In his right hand he clutched a quarterstaff. The other was stretched out imploringly towards Adelko.

  ‘Come hither, lad – don’t be fooled by your eyes. Yonder apparition is a Gaunt – an eidolon of the forest sent to trick us!’

  The voice was definitely his master’s, the words reassuringly like his own, and yet... something in that tinniness set Adelko’s sixth sense ringing.

  ‘How do I know it’s not you who is fooling my eyes...?’ asked the novice warily. ‘You couldn’t have got to the river – the trees closed behind me...’

  ‘What river?’ asked the cowled figure testily. ‘There was no river – the forest is playing tricks on us, it makes each of us see different things... come away from that apparition, Adelko, it isn’t safe to stand so close to it!’

  Adelko’s sixth sense was screaming. But who – or what – was the cause? Looking uneasily from the cowled figure sitting on the rock to the one standing at the edge of the clearing he shook his head, slowly but resolutely.

  ‘If... if you are who you say you are, then remove your hood. If you are truly my master then show me your face!’

  ‘What in Reus’ name are you talking about, boy?’ snapped the tinny voice. ‘My face is right before you, plain as day! Ah, but Tintagael is playing with your mind – come here!’

  The cowled figure took a step towards Adelko. Quick as a flash the novice produced his circifix from the folds of his habit.

  ‘Servitor of Sha’amiel, thy deceit is undone!’ he cried. ‘Begone! Back to the everlasting wilderness of Gehenna I banish thee! It is the power of the Redeemer that compels you!’

  The cowled figure that claimed to be his mentor recoiled, crying out in horror. Triumphantly Adelko stepped forwards, brandishing his circifix and repeating the words.

  It was then that he felt a presence at his back. Turning he saw that the monk sitting on the rock had risen and pulled back its cowl.

  But it was not his master’s face he looked upon.

  The skin was chalk-white and taut, pulled back over the skull, forcing the mouth into an awful grimace. Its teeth were unnaturally large, while its glaring eyes were a bloodshot-red with no irises, only pupils of deepest night. The thing towered over him, a head taller than his mentor, reaching for him with impossibly long alabaster fingers that bent and cracked unnaturally.

  Adelko felt his mind go numb with horror. Dropping his circifix he fell to his knees as the strength drained out of his body. Behind and above him, as if from a great distance, he heard a tinny voice shouting words that had a vaguely familiar, comforting sound. Then a great shudder passed through him and a yawning void opened at the base of his mind. Without another thought, he plunged into it.

  Vaskrian had no idea how long he had been wandering blindly through the mist, friendless and horseless, before it slowly gave way to reveal his surroundings. He was standing on a broad outcropping of rock that appeared to overlook a ravine; he could hear the splashing of fast-flowing waters below but a thick shroud of white fog obliterated all sight of the river beneath it. Looking behind him he could see a line of trees following the fractured lip of the ravine in both directions as far as the eye could see. At the far end of the outcropping, a ramshackle-looking rope bridge crossed over to the other side of the chasm, beyond which the forest stretched onwards with an awful certainty.

  Gazing upwards he found little to raise his flagging spirits: for even now the obtruding branches somehow contrived to extend across the width of the ravine, interlocking high above his head and abandoning him to the queer light of Tintagael. It was cold; deathly so, and young as he was the squire fancied there was something of the grave about the bitter chill.

  As the mist continued to recede the figure of another person became visible. Drawing his sword Vaskrian stepped gingerly towards where it knelt, about halfway across the outcropping between the rope bridge and the trees on his side of the ravine. As he drew closer he could see it was a knight, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. His back was to Vaskrian, and he appeared to be praying: his sword was point down against the cold rough rock, his head bent to the semi-circular crosspiece as he clutched the upturned hilt in gauntleted hands. His white tabard and cloak were slashed and torn in many places; patches of dried blood clung to the rusted links of his armour. He wore an old-fashioned helm that was dented and scratched all over.

  The knight did not budge as Vaskrian approached. Stepping around to look at him the squire could see the lineaments of a once proud and noble face, now drawn and lifeless. The deep brown eyes had a soulless look about them, one of a man who has forsaken all hope. His hair hung about his shoulders in greasy black tresses beneath his helm.

  ‘Sir knight?’ Vaskrian found himself addressing the warrior, although he had not consciously thought to speak.

  ‘Who disturbs my prayers?’ The voice was cold and disembodied. The warrior’s ragged lips barely moved as he spoke.

  ‘I... Vaskrian, esquire of Hroghar,’ he replied falteringly. It seemed strange to use chivalric protocol in this unhuman place.

  ‘Esquire of Hroghar...’ repeated the knight vacantly. His accent had a slightly curious lilt to it, at once foreign and familiar. ‘Have they built the place, then? Last I heard the castle foundations had only just been finished... Ah, I’ve been stuck in this accursed forest for so long...’

  ‘You’re one of the Thirteen, aren’t you?’ Again Vaskrian found himself speaking almost without will, as if his actions preceded his volition.

  ‘One of... is that what they call us now?’ replied the knight, still unmoving. ‘Yes, I suppose so... my name is Sir Mablung of Teerholt.’

  ‘I know,’ replied the squire distantly, as if in a dream. ‘They called you The Raven...’

  ‘... because of the colour of my hair and my swiftness in combat,’ the ghostly knight finished for him. A touch of wistfulness had crept into his ethereal voice. ‘I was the swiftest sword in the land, but the vylivigs put an end to that... A raven indeed! Alas, a harbinger of my own doom!’

  ‘The vylivigs? Who are they?’ The word sounded strange in Vaskrian’s ears. It was thoroughly alien; he didn’t like it.

  ‘They’re the Keepers of Tintagael,’ replied the shade of Sir Mablung, his voice dropping to a cracking whisper. ‘That’s the name the Fay Folk give to themselves... ah, I can still feel their black spears inside me! The pain is never gone from my bones... it’s cold! It’s so very, very cold...’

  As he spoke, blood began to run down the shade’s gaunt face from beneath his battered helm, splashing silently over his surcoat. It was indeed cold, even more so than before, and Vaskrian found himself shivering uncontrollably. The mist had not receded entirely, but undulated around the pair of them in a mad silvery-green dance of death. From somewhere deep in the ravine a powerful gust of keening wind had started up. It billowed Vaskrian’s cloak, which snapped manically about him, but Mablung’s ragged threads were limp and lifeless beneath its sere icy touch.

  ‘Tell me where my companions are!’ yelled the squire above the rising wind. ‘Tell me how to get out of this forest!’

  ‘You’ll never get out!’ replied the spirit in a despairing voice. ‘Forget your friends, they are lost to you now! All is lost! You’re in the realm of the vyliv
igs now, and there can be no returning!’ The shade’s lips had become more animated, spitting particles of ghostly blood that vanished into thin air.

  ‘That can’t be!’ Vaskrian yelled again, raising his voice yet another pitch. ‘There must be some way out of here!’ The wind had whipped itself into a roaring frenzy. It howled in his stinging ears.

  ‘There is none!’ replied the knight with a sudden fierceness that took the squire aback. As suddenly as it had come, the wind died. The cavorting wreathes of mist twirled abruptly to a halt and sloped to a sullen rest against the rocky ground.

  ‘There is none,’ repeated the ghost, this time in another whisper, the sorrow returning to his eerie voice. ‘I thought to cross this ravine, many years ago, but this was as far I got. The vylivigs came for me here.’

  ‘Well, they haven’t come for me yet,’ replied Vaskrian, trying to keep his own voice from trembling.

  Stepping over to the ravine he glanced down into it again, but the white fog lay thick and heavy and still no water could be seen. Surveying the rope bridge suspiciously he turned back to ask the ghost of Sir Mablung a question... but where the semblance of a living man had been there was now naught but a kneeling skeleton clad in rotting armour. Its sword was rusted and caked with dirt; hollow eye sockets stared back at him beneath a tarnished helm.

  ‘... Adelko! Adelko! Can you hear me?’

  The novice’s eyes flicked open with a start. Had he been dreaming?

  Yes... he had. But of what? A forest, a dark pit... he couldn’t recall. Horskram was bending over him, looking anxiously into his eyes and holding aloft his circifix. The silver rood glinted dully in the strange light of the forest...

  The forest. So that part hadn’t been a dream then. Slowly raising himself to a sitting position, Adelko rubbed his eyes and looked about him. It was the clearing where he had been: the rock was there the same as before, only this time it was empty... a shiver went down his spine as everything came flooding back to him.