by Damien Black
‘You know full well what authority we speak of,’ he spluttered indignantly. ‘This proposed union breaks with the Treaty of Lorvost, agreed more than two hundred years ago. No single lord must be allowed to gain more strength than the others, so as to preserve the balance of power in Vorstlund and ensure it never falls under the tyranny of monarchy again!’
‘That’s the right of it,’ pitched in Sir Ugo, slightly taller than his ally but somewhat less brawny. He was no less ugly; an unkempt mop of sandy brown hair did little to conceal a battle scar that disfigured his already lumpen features. ‘Nine lords to rule over the realm in peace, so it was agreed ten generations ago! Six earls, two dukes, and one prince! It didn’t say anything about a grand duke!’
Wilhelm let a great laugh off the leash. Sir Ugo’s wording of the matter was somewhat ridiculous in its pedanticism – although that did not detract from the seriousness of his point. Around the hall several of the Stonefist’s bachelors and one or two vassals joined him in laughing; Sir Balthor and his warlike cronies sneered and exchanged knowing glances.
From where he stood at his lord’s right hand, Sir Urist kept a straight face; on the other side of Wilhelm the steward Berthal did likewise. A sensible man.
‘Aye,’ returned the Stonefist when he had finished with his mirth. ‘And the Treaty doesn’t say anything about raiding and pillaging your neighbouring lords either – in fact you used the very words I’m looking for just now, Sir Ugo – “to rule the realm in peace” you said!’
Raising his huge hand he stabbed a stout finger in the emissary’s direction. Ugo flinched slightly as though he were being menaced with a spear as the lord of Graukolos raised his voice another notch: ‘Peace! Fie, I’ve barely known a minute of it with your thrice-cursed liege lords! I would have thought the younger Eorl of Ostveld would have learned some sense after I put his father in an early grave, and as for you Malthus, I would have thought your master of hounds would have learned his place too, after Balthor here made a cripple of him!
‘But no! Here we are, back they come for more! The Ürls and the Kaarls, they never know when they’re beaten – and still less when they’re in the wrong! Thrice in my reign alone they’ve tried to take this castle and all its lands, and thrice they’ve failed! Do you think the Almighty might be trying to tell your lords something? He doesn’t support their cause – and with good reason!’
Both knights’ faces reddened. Urist tensed inwardly. The Eorl’s words may have been spoken in anger, but they were also designed to provoke. He knew his liege all too well – as much as he claimed Ezekiel’s justice of defensive war he never shied away from provoking attackers either. It was simply in the great man’s nature: if he had one flaw it was his pride.
Containing his anger with some effort, Sir Malthus spoke again. ‘The Treaty clearly states that what you and the Herzog of Storne are planning is in violation of the terms agreed by all the Vorstlending barons - ’
‘A pox on your damned treaty!’ cried the Eorl, rising from his seat. Standing on his dais he loomed over the assembled notables with a dread presence; it was as if the Almighty had suddenly caused a smouldering volcano to be raised up inside the Great Hall, vast and fiery and fit to explode at any moment.
‘A pox on it, I say again!’ he thundered. ‘It hasn’t been worth the ink it was written in for a hundred years – I’m sick of hearing about that worn old scrap of parchment! Now you leave my hall, you take your horses, you ride back to your kennel masters, and you tell them this: the Grand Herewyrd of Stornelund-Dulsinor is a reality, it’s going to happen, treaty be damned! Your arch drinkers of lickspittle perjured their chances to abide by its terms years ago – if I wasn’t having to defend my borders every other year from their murderous and illegal sorties we might have kept covenant with the wretched thing! As it is they’ve left us no choice – you can solicit Storne for his opinion if you like, but rest assured you’ll find him of the same mind!’
Sir Malthus’ black eyes narrowed to gimlets. ‘Oh, our lieges already have messengers warning the Lanraks just the same as you, rest assured, my lord. So the Herewyrd of Stornelund won’t be our next port of call. Seeing as you are hell-bent on persisting in this course of action, we’ll have no choice but to send word to the rest of the High Lords of Vorstlund!’
‘Indeed, my lord, it will be interesting to see what the Herzog of Lower Thulia and the Prince of Westenlund make of your intended alliance,’ put in Sir Ugo venomously.
That gambit came as little surprise. Westenlund was the most powerful barony in the realm, Lower Thulia a close second along with Stornelund. Of all the High Lords, they stood to lose most from the Grand Herewyrd’s creation.
Perhaps, inflamed by the memory of his age-old feud with his two unruly neighbours, the Stonefist had forgotten his potentially more dangerous rivals. Dulsinor had not been to war with Lower Thulia for two generations, and never with Westenlund. The latter was mostly a result of simple geography: the Principality comprised the westernmost lands of the former kingdom of the Vorstlendings, and had little reason to come into conflict with north-easterly Dulsinor.
But the coming alliance of families could potentially constitute just such a reason: Sir Urist knew his liege lord had to tread very carefully.
So did most of the knights assembled in the Great Hall. There was a palpable tension in the silence that followed Sir Ugo’s declaration, dangerously coated as it was with false courtesy.
With a deep breath the Eorl of Dulsinor sat slowly back down on his high oak chair.
‘Yes, it will indeed be interesting to see what the Alt-Ürls and the Drülers have to say about it,’ he replied in a voice that was noticeably quieter and calmer. ‘And you can rest assured that the Herzog of Stornelund and I will come to a satisfactory arrangement with them. Now if that is the only matter you have come here to discuss, I think it is time you both took leave of my castle.’
Sir Ugo seemed resigned to the outcome and was about to turn and go. But Sir Malthus wasn’t quite done yet.
‘So be it,’ he said. ‘But you may also rest assured, my lord, that the Eorl of Upper Thulia will stop at nothing to see this alliance prevented.’
Lord Wilhelm’s face darkened again, his mood turning ugly once more with the swiftness of a summer storm. ‘Get out of my castle, now, both of you – get out before I have you thrown out, in little pieces.’
Anxious not to provoke him into making good on his threat, both knights turned to leave. As they did the Eorl’s bachelors and vassals fell into excited conversation. It was perfectly understandable: there had been war brewing in the angry words they had just heard, and war always made knights excitable. Above the chattering Balthor could be heard calling loudly for ale.
‘A well-played hand, my liege,’ said Berthal in a soft voice, ‘by no means meek but not too angry either.’
Urist nodded his assent, adding: ‘We should send messengers to Storne and confer. It is high time we discussed our strategy for approaching the lords Alt-Ürl and Drüler.’
But the Eorl of Dulsinor seemed preoccupied with something else.
‘Nothing,’ he said in a rumbling voice, as if to no one in particular. ‘The little rug rat said his liege would stop at nothing to prevent my daughter’s wedding. Aye, and I believe that vindictive cripple would, too...’
With a wave of his huge hand the Eorl ordered both men to leave him. He had some thinking to do, alone.
CHAPTER XI
A Shadow On High Walls
‘The White Valravyn are a chivalrous bunch – they’re bound to see sense and let us go eventually! You’ll see!’
Adelko groaned inwardly as he watched his mentor fix Vaskrian with a cold stare. By now he was beginning to share Horskram’s impatience with the hot-headed squire – were it not for his recklessness they might well be at Strongholm by now, not languishing in a castle dungeon.
They had been there for two days. At least the food brought to them by their gaolers was passable
fare, much to Adelko’s relief: in fact it was somewhat better than he might have expected during many a long hard winter in Narvik.
Horskram had said little, but sat brooding sullenly on his corner of the bench. As Vaskrian launched into yet another eulogy of the White Valravyn and how amazing it had been to meet his hero Sir Torgun the old monk’s stare froze over.
This time Adelko could not stop the exasperated sigh from escaping his lips. Was there no end to the squire’s prating about chivalry? Still, he was a friend, of sorts. That meant he ought to come to his rescue, before the fool got his head chewed off by Horskram.
‘Master Horskram, tell us more about the White Valravyn,’ he said, deliberately interrupting Vaskrian for his own good. ‘After all, we’ve… time on our hands. I’d like to know something of our captors’ history.’
Horskram turned to favour his novice with a frown. For a moment Adelko thought he was about to get rebuked himself, but the adept slowly nodded his head.
‘Seeing as we are in the power of these men,’ he replied, shooting a piercing glance at Vaskrian, ‘it is not unreasonable to want to know more about what moves them, although the founding of their Order is wreathed in legend.’
‘Yes, tell us, Horskram,’ said Vaskrian, warming to the idea. ‘I’ve heard bits of it, but never the whole thing.’ His eyes were shining even more brightly now. Adelko silently prayed he would hold his peace.
Fortunately he did. Clearing his throat, Horskram told them the tale of St Ulred, the hero who had become an avatar after death and inspired the founding of the most prestigious group of knights in Northalde.
Sir Ulred, as he had been known in life, had lived more than a hundred years ago, during the reign of Thorsvald the Hero King. Landless and lordless, he had roamed the realm as an errant, fighting robber knights and brigands and upholding the King’s Law wherever he found it breached. There was no shortage of heroes in that era – the Thirteen Knights of Tintagael had lived and died during those times – but Ulred more than all the others had championed the weak and defenceless, putting the concerns of the poor before the winning of a damsel’s favour or glory and riches on the battlefield.
‘Some say this was because he was of common stock himself and had been knighted in the field for exceptional courage,’ explained Horskram. ‘Others claim that had happened to his father, who raised his son never to forget his roots. Others still claim he was noble born but had been told by the Redeemer in a vision as a child to put all vanities aside and help the downtrodden.’
‘Didn’t the same thing happen to you, Master Horskram?’ blurted Adelko, instantly regretting his interruption. ‘I mean… about joining our Order…’ He faltered uncertainly as Horskram stared at him inscrutably.
‘Ah, is that what they say about me at Ulfang?’ he queried, a gentle smile playing across his lips. ‘Well, there may be some truth to that, or there may not – but I was under the impression you wished to hear more of St Ulred, not Horskram of Vilno?’
Adelko lowered his eyes to the rush-strewn floor. ‘Pray forgive me, Master Horskram,’ he said bashfully. ‘Please continue.’
The old monk cleared his throat again and went on.
‘Whatever the truth of his origins, the stories agree that Sir Ulred’s relentless do-gooding had made him powerful enemies, robber barons who eventually conspired to murder the young knight. Their henchmen took him unawares one day as he was riding through the forest in search of another worthy cause and slew him, leaving his butchered body for the crows.
‘His killers could not possibly have known what would happen next. Troubadours and loremasters alike tell it that a Valravyn crossed over from the Other Side. Happening upon Ulred’s corpse, it chased off the crows that had gathered around it and devoured his heart.’
Adelko had learned about Valravné at the monastery. They were malicious spirits trapped in the bodies of ravens, who could only escape by eating the heart of an unburied warrior slain in combat. That allowed them to possess the corpse, and rising from the bloody earth the host body would wreak havoc and rapine upon the mortal vale until the Valravyn was expelled by an Argolian or neutralised by a warlock.
‘Yet so pure had Ulred’s soul been during his life that the Almighty would not permit his body to be so foully used,’ continued Horskram, ‘and he was allowed to re-inhabit his earthly remains to do battle with the Valravyn for possession of them. And after a great struggle he triumphed over the spirit, casting it out.’
Here Horskram broke off for one of his customary pauses. ‘Is that it?’ asked Vaskrian incredulously. ‘That doesn’t sound like the part of the tale I heard!’
Adelko could not resist smiling. His new friend was unfamiliar with his mentor’s dramatic style of story-telling.
‘No, young gallant of Hroghar,’ the old monk replied wryly, ‘that is not the end of the tale. For the legend tells how each and every one of his murderers was hunted down and slain by a terrible white knight, with a pale face and merciless eyes, a gaunt cadaverous parody of the man they had killed, his body crisscrossed with blood-encrusted gashes, and a gaping wound where his heart should have been...’
That bloodthirsty narrative put an end to Vaskrian’s interruptions, and the adept finished his story without further pause.The revenant of Sir Ulred slew the barons who had conspired against him too, before freeing all the common folk they had unjustly kept imprisoned and oppressed. The legend finished by recounting how, his earthly mission accomplished, Sir Ulred relinquished control of his mortal remains forever. His body crumbled and decayed before the eyes of the peasants he had liberated, and from the stinking pile of morbid flesh a raven white as snow rose to fly far up into the heavens, never to be seen again.
‘Thus was born the legend of Sir Ulred and the White Valravyn,’ concluded the old monk. ‘Inspired by Ulred’s devotion to the Code of Chivalry, King Thorsvald established the Order of the White Valravyn to uphold justice and protect the weak, and many of his best knights flocked to join it. The Temple subsequently proclaimed Ulred a saint, and to this day nobles and commoners alike still pray to him as the patron of justice and divine retribution.’
Adelko bit his lip as he mulled that over. Retribution. Divine justice. Protecting the weak. All well and good – but there wasn’t much there about showing leniency to suspect witches.
‘It is said the White Valravyn have never put a man to death without giving him a trial first,’ said Horskram when the novice voiced his fears. ‘So have no fear on that count. But as for “seeing sense and letting us go” as our reckless young friend put it, that depends - ’
He was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Adelko’s spirits rose a little when he saw Sir Tarlquist with a gaoler and four men-at-arms in tow draw level with their cell.
‘Good e’en,’ the knight said curtly, addressing Horskram. ‘I trust that your needs have been well tended to?’
‘As well as can be expected under the circumstances,’ replied the adept dryly, ‘although yon chamber pot could use emptying, for your prison fare is passing fine.’
Sir Tarlquist allowed a thin smile to crease his war-worn features. ‘I did not think the Argolians commanded such earthy humour – but I shall have the gaolers see to it directly. In the meantime, the three of you are to come with me. The High Commander will see you directly.’
Without another word he motioned for the gaoler to open the cell door. Adelko felt a sense of trepidation despite their being temporarily freed. Were they being summoned to an audience – or a trial?
Sir Tarlquist remained silent as he escorted the three prisoners around the perimeter of the keep towards the main entrance. It was early evening. The weather had turned foul while they were underground; the darkening wet skies looked grim against the oncoming night.
The castle was already aflame with torch and taper. Statues of various warrior saints were set in alcoves along the walls; the wavering light strafed them with ghostly shadows. Adelko was reminded a little
of the refectory in Ulfang, but where St Ionus and his ilk had stared impassively stern patrician figures now glared at them, clutching spears, swords and shields in pitted stone hands. Most of the statues depicted St Ulred; representations of the saintly warrior killing robber knights and the like dotted the keep’s walls in a riot of sculpted butchery.
Adelko felt his gut tighten. His sixth sense wasn’t ringing but Staerkvit’s interior and its glorification of violence made him feel uneasy.
The gatehouse leading into the keep was flanked by four more statues, each several times larger than a man: one was of St Ulred, the other three he recognised as the archangels Ezekiel, Virtus and Stygnos, avatars of just war, courage and fortitude. A fresco straddling the gatehouse lintel showed a raven taking flight from a heart torn in two, symbolising St Ulred’s supernatural alter ego.
Two soldiers guarding the gatehouse uncrossed their halberds at a signal from Tarlquist. Passing through a torchlit corridor they emerged into a large antechamber lined with more statues like the ones outside. A great mural covered the upper part of the walls, depicting scenes from the tale Horskram had just told them.
Directly ahead was a closed pair of oak double doors bound in iron.
‘That’ll be the Great Hall, where the knights eat and the High Commander hears cases,’ Vaskrian whispered to Adelko.
‘Is that where we’re going?’ Adelko whispered back.
Vaskrian was about to reply when Tarlquist answered his question by leading them towards a flight of stairs to the right.
‘Suppose that means they haven’t got a case yet,’ said Adelko.
‘No – it only mean they haven’t decided whether to try us yet,’ replied Vaskrian, before being shushed by one of the guards.
Led by Tarlquist and flanked by their escort they ascended many flights of stairs. Adelko’s legs ached by the time they reached the summit; their recent lack of use didn’t help. The air was dank and cold. Perhaps living in a castle wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. At least a peasant’s hut was easy to keep warm if you had enough firewood.
