by Damien Black
Torgun was incapable of perceiving the irony in this last remark, but contented himself instead with saying: ‘Sir Gunthor of Staling may demand satisfaction in the lists any time he pleases. I shall not scruple to strike at a man who beats his wife in jealous fits of rage, or oppresses his peasants in defiance of the King’s law!’
‘As to his jealousy, is that any wonder?’ Hjala shot back. ‘But you are right about his ill usage of his yeomanry, although my father has of late had stern words with him about that. These minor lordlings – my father grants them a holding in the Dominions, then they see fit to behave like Woldings all because they command a score of knights of their own!’
‘I’m glad to hear our royal liege has done as you say,’ muttered Torgun somewhat sullenly. ‘And I hope Sir Gunthor will also be prevailed upon to treat his wife better in future.’
‘He better had, if it only takes three tasks to seduce her,’ the princess replied archly. Then, deftly changing the subject to avoid another quarrel, she added: ‘Do you remember how many it took with me?’
A smile returned to his rugged face at the memory. ‘Aye, my sweet princess. Twelve!’
‘Twelve,’ she repeated, smiling back at him warmly. ‘You wanted it to be thirteen, one for each of the Hero King’s knights, but I wouldn’t hear of it. Bad luck, I said!’
‘Aye, bad luck,’ the young knight repeated, somewhat neutrally she thought. Even after the recent horrors he had faced, Torgun wasn’t the most superstitious of knights. Far too busy concerning himself with worldly matters of king and country, she reflected, not without some bitterness.
‘Do you remember the courtly lay you composed for me for your seventh task?’ she pressed. ‘Those sweet verses of love? I let you kiss me full on the lips for the first time after I heard them!’
Torgun was looking awkward again. ‘I don’t remember, my princess... verse was never a strong point of mine.’
‘Oh don’t be so bashful!’ the princess exclaimed, slapping him playfully on a broad shoulder. ‘That made it all the more special that you did it for me! Let me see, I can even remember a few lines: “My love for thee is as a burning brand/How I long to hold thee in my hands” - ’
‘Stop it, my sweet – now you are mocking me!’ exclaimed Torgun, suddenly heaving himself out of bed. Only she had the power to irritate him so much, or so she hoped anyway. His tall and powerful frame loomed nakedly over her, and the princess felt her returning desire increase another notch.
‘I am not,’ she said, trying to keep the playfulness out of her voice. ‘Come back to bed, my silly poet knight, and be consoled – it was the most joyous verse that ever I heard, even if it wasn’t penned by the hand of Maegellin!’
‘I never cared overmuch for that Thraxian bard anyway,’ grumbled Torgun, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘Too much mockery and bawdiness, not enough good solid virtues...’
‘Ah, spoken like a true Northlending – what a credit you are to your country, sweet Torgun,’ she replied, reaching out to stroke him again. She was only half joking too – a purer spirit could not be found in the halls of men, she felt sure of that.
‘Aye,’ he said, his face suddenly growing grim. ‘I mean to prove that, if it is in my power to do so – I long for this war to reach its climax, all this hanging back and waiting for the accursed Woldings is driving me mad!’
The princess frowned sympathetically. ‘Have patience, my lovely darling – the northerners will come soon enough. You’ll have your chance for further glory and service to the realm.’ Drawing closer to him she added in a husky voice that was now completely sincere: ‘Come home safely.’
Meeting her gaze he replied evenly: ‘Reus willing, I shall, and with a trail of ransomed knights and slain behind me! This treacherous rebellion must be crushed!’
He made a giant fist as he said this. He was genuinely angry – to a knight such as Torgun, treason was unthinkable.
In a lesser man his mannerisms might have seemed comical – but it was difficult to laugh at one so young who had already triumphed over hundreds of knights. A year after being dubbed he had begun courting Hjala – he’d been all of eighteen but even by then his reputation preceded him. Finally, after winning the Grand Tourney at Corne Hill held every year to celebrate Freidheim’s victory over the Thraxians, he had become her lover.
That had been six months after their courtship began – he had spent an entire spring and summer tearing through tasks that would have taken most knights two years to accomplish, if at all.
Just six months to win her, body and soul – Hjala supposed that made her an easy conquest too, though Reus knew she had not intended to be. But then after years of a loveless marriage that had ended in tragedy, followed by more years of heartbreaking solitude... she had deserved some love and excitement in her broken life, surely?
She felt her thoughts going to a dark, watery place. Quickly she said: ‘And what about this other business? Of the monk Horskram, and his secret mission? You know something of this, I trow.’
Now Torgun’s face looked uneasy in a way she had not seen before. Perhaps she had misjudged him – was that a look of superstitious awe or even dread she perceived him checking?
‘The friar Horskram is a noble and pious soul, or so I judge him to be,’ he responded haltingly. ‘Sir Wolmar seemed to think otherwise, but – ’
‘Oh to Gehenna with Wolmar!’ she cried. ‘He’s a king’s grandson, and he thinks that makes him a king himself! Nothing but trouble that one, I care not one jot what he thinks!’
‘You’ll have no disagreement from me on that count, my princess,’ replied the young knight moodily. ‘But the friar is clearly involved in some dark and evil matter. A dread thing pursued him and his novice by night, all the way from their monastery in the Highlands - ’
‘Yes, I’d gathered as much from what little he would say on the subject,’ interjected Hjala. ‘But what did you see? There have been rumours going around, of a vicious assault on the garrison at Staerkvit, something to do with this Northland warlock the traitor Thule has enlisted...’
‘Whether it was the work of that wizard I cannot say,’ replied Sir Torgun hesitantly. ‘All I can say is that the devil we grappled with some ten nights ago was... just that. A denizen of the Other Side, conjured up by some dark sorcerer, sent to harry us.’
‘Harry you? Or harry the monk and his travelling companions?’
‘You are indeed shrewd, my princess. Not for nothing does your father include you in his closest councils! Alas, I cannot say – but yon monk Horskram certainly seems to think so. Whatever attacked us was dreadful powerful – it killed more than two dozen brave knights and men-at-arms, and when I managed to strike it a foul ichor bled from its loathsome carcass that notched my blade. No, I will not say more – this is not fit for a lady’s ears, let alone a royal one.’
For once Hjala decided to let the last remark go. Truth to tell she did not particularly want to hear any more: this was the closest she had ever seen her paramour come to showing fear. That in itself was enough to inspire her with terror.
‘Well, I suppose all will be revealed when my father calls his secret council,’ was what she contented herself with saying.
The young knight nodded again. He was staring at the translucent window pane, as if trying to banish some dark memory with the spectacle of strengthening sunlight.
Hjala had dark memories of her own to suppress – but she had a better idea of how to go about it.
Leaning forward again she gently pushed her paramour to lie back down on the bed. Gripping him by his massive shoulders she straddled him in a most unladylike fashion.
‘Lie back, my love,’ she whispered tenderly. ‘I have a yearning for the saddle before we go to break our fast.’
The young knight looked up at her with an expression of mingled desire and wonder. ‘Yet again, my princess!? I hope I have not failed to satisfy you previously...’
She was smiling broadly at him now
as she felt the heat rising up through her curvaceous figure, still enticing despite her middling years.
‘No, not at all,’ she breathed huskily. ‘But the poets say a woman’s appetite grows to full fruition only at her fortieth summer – and next year will be my fortieth summer...’
‘Oh I see,’ replied Torgun, his voice growing thick with pleasure. ‘And what do these poets say of men in this matter?’
Leaning down to kiss the knight she let her unbound tresses envelop him in an amorous shroud.
‘They say just the opposite: that a man is most potent in his prime. I think that makes us a happy match, sir knight. Come now, I think you are up to this final task of mine... Ah, yes, I think you are...’
CHAPTER VI
A Secret Council
‘Remember, you’re to speak only when spoken to – and even then it’s probably for the best if you say as little as possible!’
Horskram’s face looked stern in the pale morning light shining through the window of their room in the palace. As it always did when his mentor was telling him in advance to behave himself.
All the same – Adelko couldn’t help but feel excited. He was to be included in the King’s secret council, which was being held today. He didn’t need his sixth sense to tell him his mentor was getting ready to make a clean breast of things. True, he already knew most of it, but he had a feeling Horskram would discuss other things that related to their perilous mission.
The other fragments of the Headstone for one thing. Since arriving at the capital he’d had plenty of time to reflect on that conundrum – not being in mortal danger every day helped too.
And the resumption of his studies had quickly rekindled his desire for knowledge. With barely a hundred tomes, the palace library was meagre in comparison to that of the Great Monastery’s, but even so it had not taken him long to rediscover his love of learning. And book-learning was a great deal less painful than adventuring: the cuts on his side and forehead had scabbed over, but they still hurt. Any more of those and he’d start to look like Vaskrian.
As the two monks knelt for dawn prayers he found himself wondering about the squire. He had not seen him since he’d gone to join the muster outside the city walls with his new master a few days ago.
The Efrilunder was brave to the point of foolhardiness and plain foolish to boot. But he’d saved Adelko’s life twice from the Northland mercenaries hired to kill them – once in the clearing by Lake Sørdegil, a second time in the Staerk Ranges.
He’d never thanked him properly for that, and for that he felt guilty. A good Palomedian should always recognise succour.
But there was more to it than being a good Palomedian. He genuinely liked Vaskrian – even if he was a bit touched, he’d grown strangely fond of him. He was angry and violent – exactly the things a good Argolian wasn’t supposed to be – but he was honourable and genuine as well. He’d sworn an oath to protect them and he’d stuck by it. Young as he was, Adelko felt sure not all men could say the same.
He found the words of an old lay by Maegellin drifting back to him as they rose from their prayers: A friendship forged on a dangerous road is as strong as castle steel.
There would be plenty of the latter knocking around before long, the novice reflected grimly as a servant entered with their morning meal. His respite from danger would soon be at an end.
After a snatched breakfast an escort of soldiers arrived to take them to the room appointed for the council. They were not soldiers of the Order, Adelko noticed. They wore green cloaks and tabards and the double unicorn insignia of the House of Ingwin: the watch had officially taken over the duties of the White Valravyn, which would even now be discussing battle tactics on the plains outside the city.
The room chosen for the council was in a corner turret of the palace. A medium-sized oblong chamber warmed by a hearth, it had a long mahogany table and chairs at its centre. The windows were narrow slits. It seemed in keeping with the secret nature of the meeting.
Soon they were all present. There were a dozen of them, including Horskram and Adelko. The King’s brother Prince Freidhoff, his son Wolmar and the other knights Torgun and Tarlquist were the last to arrive, having come from the loyalist camp beyond the city walls.
Gazing furtively about him at the illustrious assembly, Adelko could scarcely believe he was there. The Princess Hjala sat next to Lord Ulnor the Seneschal, looking as severe and self-contained as ever, although once the novice fancied he caught her stealing a glance at Torgun that was far from neutral. But then these were tense times: perhaps his intuition was addled.
Lady Walsa bustled in making a great fuss. Sweeping haughtily into the chamber, she glared about her, her leathery face only breaking into the briefest of smiles when she set eyes on Horskram, whom she sat next to. Her garb was severe, even more so than Princess Hjala’s, consisting of a plain black gown and gloves and unadorned wimple of white cloth. She was tall and probably not unhandsome in her youth, though she looked a good deal older than her fifty winters. Her eyes shone with a lustre that Adelko had seen in many a zealous monk. In a woman, he had to admit, it was quite frightening. But then he hadn’t seen much of the fairer sex at the monastery.
The other two men were previously unknown to him. The skinny, awkward-looking man about the same age as Lady Walsa with a parrot face and tufts of curly greying hair he took to be Prior Holfaste: his grey habit was identical to Horskram’s, and the chain he wore marked him out as the Abbot of Urling Monastery. Adelko suddenly wondered what had become of Sacristen, and whether he had managed to keep secret what was now about to be revealed to others. He found himself wishing the timorous old monk was here as well – most of these people were strangers to him and he felt out of his depth.
His High Holiness Lorthar, Arch Perfect of Strongholm Temple, did nothing to make him feel more comfortable. If Holfaste resembled a parrot, Lorthar looked like a hawk. Dressed in his white robes of office and red scapular studded with golden wheel motifs he looked as much like a wealthy noble as he did a priest. His taloned hands, gnarled by his seventy winters in the mortal vale, were encrusted with jewelled rings; about his bald head he wore a circlet of platinum, and the ceremonial staff he carried was of varnished black wood chased with gold elaborately fashioned to resemble scenes from the Scriptures.
The contrast between the richly attired Arch Perfect and the Argolian friars could not have been more marked; even the King looked somewhat plain next to him. His black eyes burned with a different kind of zeal to Lady Walsa’s: where hers betrayed an overly earnest and hot-headed devotion, his displayed a cold zealotry that set Adelko’s sixth sense jangling. He had hitherto only dealt with the more humble members of the Temple: simple mountain perfects, priory men and the odd mendicant. On the whole they had been pious and gentle souls, if somewhat ineffectual.
But his High Holiness Lorthar dressed like the worldliest of men, and the novice’s sixth sense told him he was rarely gentle.
Presently, when the door had been closed and barred, the King cleared his throat and convened the council.
‘You have all been gathered here today to help address a matter of grave import,’ he began. ‘I need not tell you that we are already troubled by Thule’s treasonous rebellion – however it is also said the world contains many threats to peace and prosperity, far older and deadlier than the wars of men. Having conversed at length with the Argolian adept Horskram, who sits here among us, I have come to believe that the beginnings of such a threat have arisen, here and now, in this our realm.’
The King paused a few moments to let his words sink in. All about the table curious pairs of eyes belonging to some of the most accomplished and powerful people in the kingdom were fixed on Adelko’s stoical mentor.
The King continued: ‘I believe it is meet that I now permit Horskram to speak, and tell all of you his ill tidings. Some of you here will have heard part of the tale already, but none of you I think, save perhaps for his novice here, know the full sto
ry. Master Horskram, if you would now care to proceed...’
Horskram told the story of their adventures again, only this time he told it in full. When he mentioned the Headstone fragment and described its theft from Ulfang, a furious look buckled Lorthar’s features, whilst one of horror crossed Holfaste’s. Lady Walsa made the sign and muttered a prayer. More of the assembled worthies followed suit when the old monk reached the part about Tintagael, and his tale of their audience with the faerie kings had some of them gaping. The story of the final encounter with the demon did nothing to calm his audience, confirmed as it was by many a nod of the head from the raven knights present. Only when he recounted how they had slain the Northland brigands afterwards was a note of general defiance struck.
Lorthar was the first to speak after the tale of their adventures was over.
‘How could the Argolians have let this come to pass!?’ he thundered. ‘That fool Sacristen ought to be horsewhipped – I’ve said for years that the friars of St Argo were unfit guardians for such a powerful artefact!’
Drawing himself upright in a gesture of moral righteousness he made the sign of the wheel in most exaggerated fashion.
‘And where else would you have had it kept?’ retorted Prior Holfaste in his quavering voice. ‘According to Brother Horskram the fragment was stolen by a demon with the power to smash stone and melt iron – what protection could the Temple have offered against such an entity?’
‘The power of the prayers of true perfects!’ replied his High Holiness sententiously. ‘Your Order has ever delved too deep into eldritch arcana – why, it stood accused of black witchcraft but a generation ago!’
‘We were exonerated and pardoned in full!’ cried Holfaste.
‘Only for lack of evidence,’ muttered the Arch Perfect darkly.
‘Lack of evidence!’ spluttered the Abbot, rising from his seat angrily. ‘You speak of evidence! Need I remind you that all the evidence pointed to our chief accusers being the culprits themselves! Why, the Arch Perfect of Montrevellyn was subsequently found to have succumbed to the temptations of Sha’amiel the Deceiver! He was burned at the stake in the main square in Rima, along with several dozen of his followers – perfects of the Temple all! Do you remember that, Lorthar?’
