by Damien Black
‘Ah, yes, I suppose so...’ he replied hesitantly.
Horskram only smiled. ‘Have no fear, for in this case your extra-curricular reading should serve you well – are you familiar with the tale of Sir Alric the Pious and the Holy Bloodquest?’
Adelko nodded, his enthusiasm returning. ‘Why of course, it’s one of the best stories of the Age of Chivalry... the King was cursed by the White Blood Witch, and only the blood of the Redeemer could heal him. But only his purest-hearted knight could ever find such a relic, and that’s why all the others failed where Alric succeeded. They say he was, um... virginal, and he’d never even killed anyone – ’
‘What sort of a knight is that?’ snorted Vaskrian, suddenly paying attention. ‘Never mind Alric, everyone knows Sir Lancelyn of the Pale Mountain was King Vasirius’ greatest knight! Well, for a Pangonian he was quite good anyway...’
The squire’s voice trailed off as Horskram fixed him with a stare that would curdle milk.
‘Anyhow, they say he journeyed for a year and a day until he found what he was looking for,’ continued the novice. ‘But none of the lays I’ve read specifically say the blood was kept in Strongholm...’
‘No, none of them do,’ agreed Horskram. ‘That’s because most Pangonians are notoriously indifferent to foreign countries, and their poets are no different. But Gracius’ description of the remote northern city shrouded in mists, where the perfects guarding the Redeemer’s blood lived, is strikingly reminiscent of our capital. Of course that could just be coincidence – many cities of the world are built by the sea and have high stone walls after all – but the apparent similarities are worth bearing in mind in light of one other important consideration.
‘In the seven centuries since Strongholm was founded, there have scarcely been any diabolical incidents there. Possessions, hauntings, manifestations, reports of witchcraft... our capital and its environs have been an oasis of calm, as far as such things go. When there have been incidents, they have only been of an extreme nature – a greater demon or the shade of one especially powerful or wicked in life, a mighty warlock... something or someone powerful enough to contend with the blood of Palom. That above all else persuades me that the legend is true. I believe that the perfecthood at the Bethel of St Alysius have worked hard through the centuries to convince the rest of the True Temple, from here to Rima, that the tale of the Prophet’s Bloody Chalice is nothing more than a myth.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘Think on it, Adelko, green as you are the answer is ready and waiting. The head of the True Temple has his seat in Rima. How do you think the Supreme Perfect, sitting on his marble throne in the greatest Urovian city west of the Great White Mountains, would feel knowing that arguably the most potent relic of the Creed was sitting, not beneath his plush floors, but those of a distant northern priesthood in a realm regarded by haughty southerners as little better than a collection of barbarian tribes?’
‘Barbarians?’ broke in Vaskrian. ‘Pangonian swine, fie on them! Those effete southerners are no match for stout Northlendings in the field, that’s the only reason they call us rough!’
‘Yes, thank you, Vaskrian, for your cultural observations,’ replied Horskram dryly. ‘But I believe my novice and I were holding discourse about the politics of our great mother Temple. Now if you’d be so kind...’
‘Alright, I know when I’m not wanted,’ replied the squire. ‘And I know a dull conversation when I hear one! If you don’t mind, Yorro and I will keep our own company for a bit.’
He nudged his courser ahead of them, leaving the two monks to continue talking.
‘I see...’ resumed Adelko. ‘So, you’re saying that it’s not just the Temple perfects and us who don’t trust each other – the perfects don’t trust each other either?’
Horskram sighed. ‘I’m afraid so, and sorry to say that if I were to tell you everything I know of the machinations of Temple politics we would still be talking long after sunset. We shall speak of such things further, when the time is right, but not now.’
The last thing Adelko wanted to hear about was more Temple politics – he’d been traumatised enough lately as it was. There were a couple of things playing on his mind though.
‘But this… thing that’s chasing us – can it really be stopped by the Redeemer’s blood?’
Horskram pursed his lips. ‘A more powerful entity would probably have killed us at Landebert’s hut, as we discussed before. Once we get within the Strang Ranges that encircle the lands that feed Strongholm, the relic’s power should be enough to protect us.’
‘But what then? We can’t just cower behind the walls of Strongholm – we have to get to Rima don’t we?’
‘Indeed we do. Which is why, when we reach the capital – assuming we do – I must find some way to persuade the Arch Perfect to do the unthinkable.’
‘Which is?’
‘To do what has not been done for anyone save pious Sir Alric more than a hundred and fifty years ago – to let me take a part of Strongholm’s great relic with me to Rima, for our protection.’
Adelko stifled an incredulous laugh. ‘But... with all due respect Master Horskram, from what you’ve just told me, His Holiness will never do it. Even if he is a great friend to our Order!’
‘He is not a great friend to our Order,’ replied Horskram flatly, before nudging his horse to catch up with Vaskrian’s.
The three of them continued riding, stopping only at a stream to refill their waterskins before reaching the highway around mid-afternoon. They passed many people as they took it north: knights and men-at-arms heading south towards the war, travelling merchants and artisans fleeing the same, yeomen farmers with wayns heading in both directions with much needed victuals, freeswords and archers looking to sell their services, and one or two black-robed mendicant perfects, calling on those about to shed blood to give money to atone in advance for their mortal sins.
Toward dusk they overtook a ragged group of peasants. They had a look of abject misery and carried sorry-looking bundles on their backs. Adelko guessed they were all the poor folk owned.
‘What takes you north?’ asked Horskram as they drew level with the sorry band.
The nearest one squinted up at him. He had a rough bloodstained cloth over one eye and one side of his face was pock-marked from the ravages of an old illness. His mouth was set in a perpetual grimace.
‘We’re from Salmorlund,’ he replied in a thin reedy voice. ‘Our village was set upon by the Jarl of Thule’s men – or should I say Prince of Thule, as that’s wot he’s taken to calling himself now – ten days ago. They swept across the river by night, commenced to burnin’ everything and slaying everyone in sight. We’re all that’s left of our village, aye and I daresay those for a few leagues around will tell a similar tale.’
‘May the Redeemer console you for your losses and the Almighty wreak just vengeance on those responsible,’ replied Horskram. ‘But what of the border defences? What of His Royal Highness Prince Wolfram?’
The one-eyed peasant glared and spat. The two yeomen walking nearest him, a middle-aged woman with a pale tear-streaked face and a bearded yeoman missing an arm, shook their heads dolefully.
‘Well now, a poor peasant as I am don’t dare speak ill o’ the King’s son and heir,’ continued the one-eyed yeoman sourly. ‘But let’s just say the Lord Warden of the Southern Reaches was too busy tourneying away up north to fight a real war on his back doorstep. By the time he’d heard of Thule’s uprising and set out with his knights it were too late. It was left to Lord Kelmor to defend Salmor on ‘is own.’
The future king’s love of glory on the field was well known. The news made for bitter irony.
‘That is regrettable,’ said Horskram. ‘But it should have made little difference who was left in charge – why did the Jarl of Salmorlund not send men to protect your village?’
‘His lordship Kelmor was pinned down in his castle – too busy resistin’ a surprise at
tack that turned into a full-blown siege overnight to help the likes o’ us,’ continued the one-eyed peasant. ‘And looks like Thule’s got men to spare for ravagin’ us poorer folk in the meanwhile. By the time they came down on us, killin’ and burnin’, we heard that he’d taken Blakelock too – aye, sent the Lord Warden headin’ for the hills, he did! Fact o’ the matter is, master monk, until His Majesty musters a proper army, folks down south are outnumbered. Krulheim’s got every baron south of the river on his side.’
Horskram tugged fretfully at his unkempt beard. ‘Where are you headed now?’ he asked. ‘You have travelled far from your homes.’
‘Not far enough, master monk. We’re headed north of the Rymold – rumour has it Krulheim means to march on the capital, when he’s done with the southern reaches o’ the King’s Dominions. They say he wants these lands for himself, and Strongholm for his seat. He means to avenge his father good ‘n’ proper, and he’s got the strength to do it, they say – mark my words, master monk, there’ll be a siege o’ the capital before the next winter sets in, that there will.’
They reached Ryosfal shortly after dusk. By that time they had fallen in with a motley assortment of freeswords and craftsmen, making their way to join the King’s muster. The sight of blacksmiths heeding the call to war put Adelko in mind of his father, far away up north in Narvik. He would probably be too old to be sent south with the Highland clans – assuming he was even still alive. That brought on a twinge of homesickness that he struggled to suppress.
The ancient town stood where the north-south road met the east road for Strongholm. Colloquially known as the king’s highway, it had no westerly branch: that way led only to the borders of Tintagael, where no sane man would ever dare venture.
Pushing the thought of their recent mad adventures to one side, Adelko guessed that they must now be a day’s ride south of where they had been chased off the road into the dreadful forest. Recalling that incident had him wondering: what had become of the brigands since? He supposed they had to be somewhere in the vicinity, and with so many freeswords on the roads they would blend in easily enough. The thought did as little to settle his mind as the oncoming night – he began to remember why they had entered Tintagael in the first place.
With a population of nearly two thousand souls, Ryosfal was the biggest sort of town, but even so all the inns were full, crammed to the rafters with craftsmen, freeswords and refugees.
‘We must seek shelter the old-fashioned way, and beg a floor and bowl of soup for the night,’ said Horskram, referring to the time when the craze for new-fangled inns had not spread across the Great White Mountains from the Empire, which seemed to have the knack for coming up with such novel ideas.
The first couple of houses they tried turned them away, having already taken in wayfarers. The third opened up for them, but taking one look at Horskram’s grey habit, the householder spat and cursed: ‘Argolians is it? I’ll not shelter the likes of you heretics under my roof, meddling with demonspawn and all – begone, before I call a perfect and have a real man of the cloth send you on your way!’
The surly townsman slammed the door in their faces without another word.
‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Adelko, aghast. ‘We don’t meddle with demons – we fight them! And we’re certainly no heretics – why would he say that?’
‘Because he’s been listening to the wrong kind of perfect,’ replied Horskram flatly. ‘Never mind that for now – let’s try another house. These are all well-to-do, as far as towns go – there’s bound to be somebody left who can spare us a floor and some stabling space.’
The fourth house they tried did not even answer, but when Horskram knocked on the varnished pine door of the fifth it was opened promptly enough by a bent-backed servant of about forty winters. She gazed at them suspiciously as Horskram humbly requested food and lodgings, and looked about to turn them away when a deep-throated voice came from behind her.
‘Did I hear rightly, an Argolian friar seeks my roof for the night? Maddie, stand aside – I’ll not have it said I turned away the Order from my door in need, though there’s many round here as would!’
The speaker stepped from the house’s interior into the light shed by the serving maid’s candelabrum. He was a short, stocky man, with cropped greying mousy hair and a plain-looking face, some fifty winters old. His clothes were of simple design but well kept and cut from the finest wool. Holding out a stumpy-fingered hand adorned with rings studded with semi-precious gemstones for Horskram to shake, he said: ‘My name is Arro, wool merchant, at your service. Perhaps you’d do me the honour of introducing yourself and your companions?’
‘Of course,’ replied Horskram, betraying no sign of his dislike of merchants or consternation at having to give their names. ‘I am Horskram of Vilno, this is my novice, Adelko of Narvik, and this is Vaskrian, esquire of Hroghar. We would be most grateful if – ’
‘Aye, I know what you need,’ interrupted the merchant. ‘Bed and board. I heard plain enough when you were talking to Maddie just now. Step inside, I just wanted names is all – can’t be too careful nowadays, with all these rakehell freeswords and Reus knows what other vagabonds roaming the land.’
Presently the four of them were sitting in Arro’s spacious main room, which boasted the kind of rude opulence typical of a bourgeois townsman. He clearly thrived at his trade, because he had enough chairs for all of them to sit on, a luxury that few landed knights could boast. A low oak table by the hearth had been set by Maddie with a large earthenware flagon of red wine and four pewter cups. Among the numerous hangings and curios adorning the crowded walls, Adelko noticed three small tapestries arranged in a triptych depicting scenes from the Scriptures. That surprised him – he had been led to believe by Horskram that merchants were an ungodly lot.
He soon had the answer to that riddle. On his second cup Arro candidly let it be known that his younger brother had taken holy orders with the Argolians, and that he had always been a friend to the Order. Anything he could do to help the good friars, anything at all... Maddie was cooking up a hearty stew even as they spoke, and there would be blankets aplenty and space on yon rug. He would see to it that the hearth was kept burning all night.
Horskram thanked the merchant levelly and pressed him for more news of the impending war.
‘Hmm, not much more I can tell you besides what you already know,’ frowned Arro, stroking his broad chin thoughtfully. ‘They’re said to be sore pressed on the southern borders, sounds as if Thule and his lot are making swift progress – you’ve heard about Blakelock, well they’ve got Rookhammer surrounded as well now. Once they take that and Castle Salmor there’ll be no stoppin’ them – I’d say Prince Wolfram will be under siege at Linden before too long at this rate. But it’s not all bad news – the recruiting serjeant I spoke with t’other day said Freidheim plans on marching south to meet the rebels next month.’
Horskram frowned. ‘Next month? But that’s weeks away – by my reckoning it can’t be later than the 8th of Samonath...’
Arro looked at him incredulously. ‘Begging your pardon, master monk, but either my wine’s too strong or you’ve been preachin’ in the wilderness over long – why it’s the 20th, or I’m a Thraxian!’
Horskram gaped and shook his head. ‘But that can’t be – we set out from Ulfang Monastery on the 24th of Varmonath. By my reckoning we’ve been on the road for a fortnight, and I always keep strict track of the time. Our way has been... compromised, but I can’t have miscounted by twelve days!’
Arro was shaking his head ruefully. ‘Oh but I’m afraid you have, Master Horskram. Now I’m no scholar as you are,’ he went on, raising a broad hand in acknowledgement. ‘But in my trade, him as don’t keep track o’ the days is as like to come a cropper as him as don’t keep track o’ his pennies. If you want I can show you all me ledgers, they’re bang up to date, and as I said before – today is the 20th, or I’m a knight about to ride off to war wit’ King Freidheim and all
his men!’
Horskram seemed about to protest but suddenly stopped short as the realisation dawned on all three of them. Adelko felt a chill creep down his spine as he recalled the timelessness of the cursed forest. No wonder they had all been so ravenous at lunch that afternoon.
Horskram stuttered a feeble excuse at the quizzical merchant and did his best to dissemble, just as Maddie arrived to announce that supper was ready.
The four of them ate in the same room. Like their kindly host the stew was simple but wholesome, and each of them had more than one helping. Adelko felt no monkish pangs of guilt as he tucked in – after all they had a fortnight’s eating to catch up with.
When they were done Arro bade them good night and left Maddie to bring fur blankets and stoke up the fire. Outside it had begun to rain. Northlending weather remained as changeable as ever at this time of year. In a strange way that seemed comforting.
Listening to the pattering of drops against the horn windowpanes as he settled down for the night, Adelko turned to Horskram and whispered: ‘How can it be that we were in the forest for so long? I only remember one night as such... at the Hag’s hut. Surely it was two days, not two weeks!’
‘It is possible we walked in our sleep,’ mused the adept. ‘Or simply that time passed in the forest is not the same as time passed in the outer world. I do not really know, to tell you the truth. All I know is that time is against us, more even than I thought before. Go to sleep – we’ll need to make the most of it tomorrow!’
Vaskrian was already gently snoring beside them. Turning over the two monks followed suit, quickly drifting off to sleep.
That night Adelko dreamed again. This time he was back in Narvik, returning from a long journey. Only somehow he had become lost in a vast forest, and a hundred years had passed without his knowing, and all the faces that greeted him as he rode into his home village were strange ones.
