by Damien Black
‘He’s a killer!’ yelled Horskram suddenly. ‘Don’t you understand that? Vaskrian, yon Thraxians, every experienced man in this field, yea even our King himself – they are all killers!’
‘But – ’
‘No buts Adelko – you are a novice of the Argolian Order, sworn to peace and only to fight in self-defence. And even then you aren’t supposed to take life – and that means you don’t befriend those that do! I fear your adventures have clouded your judgement – perhaps I should never have brought you along after all. Clearly your moral fortitude is vulnerable to pressure.’
Adelko felt a surge of anger then. It was a rare emotion for him – he rarely got angry about anything. But after weeks of danger he felt stretched thin. Why did his mentor have to be so relentlessly grim and unpleasant?
‘But these men have no choice!’ he said. ‘Thule started this war – and it’s only because the King let him live after the last one that he’s even able to in the first place! Vaskrian killed those men because they were trying to kill us – and if he hadn’t I’d be dead by now! How can you be so… so ungrateful?’
Horskram sneered. ‘Ah, he muddles his way through a few misadventures and now the novice presumes to teach the master on moral equivalence! Well, go to it then, lad – befriend this fool squire if you think it best. Befriend every hardened sworder in the land if it pleases you. Just remember that if any one of them had to kill you in service, they would do it without hesitation.’
‘That’s not fair!’ yelled Adelko. ‘Vaskrian would never kill an Argolian! He only kills bad men.’
Horskram laughed bitterly. ‘Ah, have I taught you nothing these past months?’ he said ruefully. ‘Let me tell you precisely what Vaskrian is, seeing as it seems to have passed you by. He is a glorified young thug. He hopes to earn himself a title, so he can enrich himself and kill with impunity whenever he feels like it. That is his motivation – nothing more. He doesn’t care a fallen angel’s damnation about you – he saved you only to enhance his own reputation.’
The old monk flung his arms up in mock adulation. ‘Vaskrian – esquire of Hroghar, saver of hapless young monks! Vaskrian – killer of traitors in service to his King! Vaskrian – killer for hire, full stop. Do you understand?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Adelko defiantly. ‘He isn’t for hire – he doesn’t fight for coin, he said so himself.’
‘No, Adelko, he doesn’t fight for coin – his ambitions are higher than that. He fights for the living he one day hopes to attain, for the plot of land he hopes to receive for services rendered. He kills for his own advancement, his own personal glory. The rest is just gold-plating on steel.’
Adelko was about to retort. Then he stopped.
Remember what I did. Tell everyone. Especially if they’re a blueblood.
The squire’s own words. The ones he’d laughed at that very morning.
He should have held his peace then. He should know better than to try and outfoot his mentor in a debate on moral logic. But he still felt angry. He wasn’t done arguing yet.
‘So what does that make you?’
The words were spoken quietly. They caught his mentor by surprise.
‘What does what make me?’ replied the adept icily.
‘You used to be a knight once – and a crusader to boot. Fighting in a holy war our Order refuses to condone. How many men have you killed, Master Horskram?’
A pained look crossed his mentor’s face. Adelko regretted his words instantly.
‘I… have repented my sins,’ was all he said. He turned away again, looking bleakly at the assembled knights and soldiers as the King rode up to address them on a gorgeously caparisoned Farovian destrier.
Adelko could not bring himself to stop. It was as if somebody else were speaking with his voice.
‘But you’ve still killed men, Master Horskram,’ he said softly. ‘They’re still dead. No matter what you’ve done since, or what you ever do, their blood will always be on your hands.’
He was half expecting an angry rebuke, to be told to guard his tongue and know his place. It didn’t come.
‘Aye, it will,’ replied the adept sadly. ‘And my soul shall ever be tainted with it, until the day the Angel of Death sees fit to bring me before him. That is why, for all the world, I would not have you seduced by the way of the sword, Adelko. A pure spirit is a precious thing.’
The adept laid a tanned hand on Adelko’s shoulder and looked him square in the eyes. ‘In time, if you survive, you will become an Argolian journeyman, perhaps even an adept. As the years pass you will realise that compromises must be made, to serve the greater good.’
‘But I do realise! That’s what I’ve been arguing just now, about Vaskrian and the others…’
‘Not that kind of compromise, Adelko. Next to perjuring one’s soul, to kill a man is the worst thing a Palomedian can do.’
Something occurred to Adelko just then.
‘But – even Palom himself was a killer, before he forsook the sword. He spent his early years leading the revolt against the Thalamians while trying to bring the Creed to Urovia. And he is our Prophet!’
Horskram nodded. The sadness had not left his voice. ‘Aye, that is true. And some among our Order say his cruel death was a punishment, meted out by the Almighty – for his own indulgence in moral equivalence.’
That brought Adelko up short. Everyone knew the Redeemer had been a warrior-prophet who eventually became a pacifist before being tortured and executed in Tyrannos. But he’d never thought about it like that before.
‘You will have to make moral compromises, as we all must,’ the adept continued. ‘But killing should never be one of them. To consort with those that do so without hesitation, without compunction, is a grave sin.’
‘I understand, really I do,’ said Adelko. ‘But if there was hope for Palom, and hope for you – surely there’s hope for Vaskrian? At least he tries to do the right thing sometimes, even if he is a killer.’
Horskram sighed and shook his head wearily. ‘Do we absolve the unrepentant murderer because he loves his wife? Or cares for his children? Think on it Adelko – that young hotblood you call friend is tearing up the highway towards perdition. And I don’t see him getting off that horse very soon.’
‘But… if that’s true of Vaskrian, then it’s true of half the people in this army. Torgun, Braxus… all of them, even the King. Their souls are all forfeit.’
The adept sighed, his face bleak beneath his hood. ‘Now perhaps you appreciate why I do not share that idiot Thraxian’s exuberance over this war.’
The two monks said nothing more after that, listening in silence to the King’s speech.
Freidheim was a good speaker. No, he was more than that. He was a magnificent speaker. The effect of his words on the men was visible; as he exhorted them to deeds of valour in service to the loyalist cause, Adelko could see every man from landed knight to common footsoldier stand a little straighter. Even the poor Wolding peasants seemed to stir, clutching their rusted pitchforks more firmly, a glimmer of pride kindling their hopeless eyes.
The King was a magnificent speaker. His speech made Adelko feel sick and troubled.
A great cheer went up when Freidheim finished, drawing his sword with a flourish and brandishing it high over his head. The walls of Strongholm resounded with clarion calls and the army began its march to Linden. Adelko and Horskram fell in with the King’s retinue, riding before the vanguard. As they made their way past a crowd of womenfolk and men too young or old to fight, their discourse on Palom took the novice’s mind back to an unexpected place.
He remembered the Fays’ words in Tintagael Forest.
The warrior-prophet’s blood was shed, that mortal man might thrive instead.
Cryptic words, intended to steer them towards the Redeemer’s blood for their own protection. They had a bitter irony to them now. To thrive on bloodshed: was that the Almighty’s plan for His creation?
The faerie couplet stayed
with him. Staring at the horizon he recalled another, from their penultimate verse.
A crooked path you now must tread, gloom gathers on the road ahead.
Was that just a warning specific to their mission, he now wondered, or a metaphor for any life? He pictured the Fays, ensconced in their sylvan sanctuary, laughing down through the ages at the ways of mortal men.
CHAPTER VIII
The Net Tightens
‘Father, what is the meaning of this?’ Adhelina’s face was flushed and angry. The pair of them had not been getting on well of late as it was; this latest absurdity only heightened the tension.
‘It’s a precautionary measure,’ growled her father, without turning from the window overlooking the middle ward. From the practice yard far below the faint sound of clanging drifted up as the knights and soldiers went about their daily regimen.
‘A precautionary measure?’ repeated the heiress of Dulsinor incredulously. ‘An armed guard on my chamber door day and night! What are you fearing father, that a rival lover may seek me out in my boudoir?’
Her father turned to face her. A mountain of a man, his temper could inspire fear in many a knight, but not his only daughter.
‘More likely that a rival baron may send an assassin to prevent this alliance with the stroke of a knife!’ he thundered. ‘You’re supposed to be the great reader in the family – surely you recall the tale of Hardred the Melancholy?’
This unexpected remark brought Adhelina up short. She had to think a moment to remember the story. Hardred had been the Second Eorl of Dulsinor. He had inherited the Griffenwyrd from his grandfather Ranveldt Longyear more than two centuries ago, and earned his lugubrious epithet after his daughter Alois was murdered on the eve of her wedding. She had been engaged to a powerful Pangonian warlord, and the House of Markward had stood to gain from the blood alliance... until the then Eorl of Upper Thulia had had her assassinated to prevent the match from happening.
That had been the start of the blood feud between the two Griffenwyrds, which continued to this day. For many years afterwards the House of Markward had taken to putting an armed guard on female family members for a moon before their weddings, and it had gradually grown to be something of a custom.
But it had been dropped a few generations ago. The night-time guard had always struck Adhelina as rather silly given that Alois had been murdered during a hunting expedition.
‘But you cannot mean to revive such a foolish custom!’ she exclaimed. ‘The Lady Alois was killed in the Glimmerholt – why, no assassin could hope to penetrate the walls of Graukolos!’
‘Oh no?’ replied the Eorl. ‘Don’t be too sure... the Eorl of Upper Thulia’s been making threats.’
‘Threats? What kind of threats?’
‘Just before he left, his emissary, that lickspittle Malthus, said his liege would stop at nothing to prevent this alliance being sealed with your marriage.’
Adhelina was sorely tempted to shower praise on the Eorl of Upper Thulia, but thought better of it. ‘I think you are taking a hotblood’s word too literally,’ was what she said.
‘Then you should think again,’ replied her father darkly. ‘I haven’t ruled this long and stayed alive by ignoring threats, veiled or otherwise. The guard stays until the wedding – they’re to accompany you on all your errands, though thanks to Hettie you shouldn’t need to do any of those yourself.’
Walking over to his only daughter he took her firmly yet gently by the shoulders.
‘We may not have agreed on much of late,’ he said, looking earnestly down into her face. ‘But believe me when I say that I love you, and am doing what is best for you, in the long run. You may not see that now, but in time I hope you will.’
Adhelina nodded slowly, feigning resignation. Her thoughts were awhirl. She could not risk pushing this point too far, her father mustn’t suspect anything...
‘Well as long as I still have the privacy of my chambers...’ she said in voice that was meant to be small.
‘Of course!’ said her father, smiling for once. ‘After all, I’ll not have common soldiers invading the sanctity of my virginal daughter’s boudoir!’
Adhelina nearly flinched when he said this. She did not enjoy the subject of her virginity – the price of preserving her freedom had been to deny her body’s desires. While she remained unmarried under her father’s close watch there was little chance of her ever being courted by a paramour, for few would dare even try. Now after all that struggle and sacrifice she was on course to being deflowered by a man she found repulsive. The thought had only spurred her on in her plans of escape.
But now those plans looked set to be scuppered – by one hasty remark from some foolish knight, and the echo of an old family tragedy.
‘Very well, father,’ she said demurely. ‘If that is all, I think I will return to my chambers now.’
Back in her main chamber Adhelina paced circles frantically whilst Hettie did her best to calm her down.
‘Sit down and have some herbal tea, m’lady,’ she proffered. ‘Look, I’ve just made it!’
‘Oh fie on tea, I need a stiff drink!’ said Adhelina hotly.
‘Well, that can be arranged,’ replied her lady-in-waiting. Rising to her feet she went to speak to the two guards outside before exiting. Before long she returned with a servant in tow carrying a jug of wine and two goblets on a silver tray. Adhelina had not ceased her pacing, but with the servant gone and the door barred she was at last prevailed upon to take a seat and have a drink.
‘You’ll make yourself ill with all that frantic pacing,’ muttered Hettie, taking a sip of the ruby-coloured vintage.
Adhelina took a great draught before setting her goblet down on her walnut table with an exasperated thunk. It was a lovely dry red from southern Pangonia but not too strong, and did little to soothe her troubled spirits.
‘Oh Hettie, what are we to do?’ she lamented, moderating her voice so the guards outside would not hear. ‘This spoils all our plans... how are we to sneak away in the dead of night with sentries on the blasted door?’
Hettie stared dolefully into her cup. ‘I know not, m’lady,’ she replied in a subdued voice.
Sighing deeply Adhelina turned to stare across her room, clogged as always with myriad bunches of herbs hanging up to dry.
And that was when the solution to her problem occurred to her.
Time drew on towards the day of the wedding. The castle was a hive of activity throughout, as cooks prepared a feast of gargantuan proportions even by Vorstlending standards; the draymen and drovers of Merkstaed were kept continually busy with repeated orders for ale, wine and meat. Hundreds of knights and ladies would attend the ceremony, even the Great Hall would be stretched to fit them all in.
The heiress of Dulsinor could not look upon all these preparations without a twinge of guilt, and though she still loathed her affianced with all her soul she also could not help feeling for her father – he would be mortified by her disappearance.
In keeping with custom she would not see her betrothed before the day of their wedding – that was good, it meant if all went according to plan she would never see him again.
She and Hettie had quarrelled over the date of their escape before she had gone to town on her three clandestine errands. Hettie felt that if it must be escape then the sooner the better, so as not to allow the preparations to get too far advanced.
Adhelina saw things differently. She still hoped futilely that her father would somehow relent, or more likely that the Lanraks would try to insert some last-minute clause into the agreement that Wilhelm would find unacceptable, leading to his calling off the wedding.
That too proved a vain hope. The days stretched on pitilessly without any such occurrence. Once she tried to persuade her father to at least delay the wedding, but he only roared her out of his solar. Messengers from Stornelund confirmed what Adhelina dreaded most; the Lanraks were perfectly contented with all arrangements as they stood, and the ceremony would take
place on the appointed day. The heiress of Dulsinor resigned herself to her escape plan, and together she and Hettie finalised it.
They did not lack for furs and warm clothes, although with spring drawing towards summer they probably would not need them, save at night. The money left over from Adhelina’s brooch would be enough to purchase lodgings along the way to Meerborg in any case, and perhaps bribe a few innkeepers into silence.
Besides that she had plenty of finery that her father had gifted her over the years that she could sell when she got to the Free City. Her white gold ruby circlet, a collection of silver and gold bracelets, many of them studded with semi-precious stones, several other brooches and pairs of earrings and one or two pendants of similar value to the piece she had sent Hettie to pawn, a pouch full of gold and silver rings that she rarely wore, the most valuable of which was studded with emeralds. That had been another coming of age present from her father, back when their relationship had been a warm one.
Before she had disappointed him, she thought bitterly as she watched Hettie seal up the pouch.
Yes, it was a veritable king’s ransom of jewellery – and up until now she had never thought she would have a use for any of it. She had never been one for ornamentation, preferring to dress simply in imitation of the Marionite monks she so admired. She would never see old Lorsch, the prior of Lothag Monastery again, she reflected sadly; the kindly old monk had taught her many things about herb lore since she was a child, patiently indulging the lord of the keep’s only daughter.
She hoped she had proved an able student over the years – not least because everything now depended on her craft.
Her last meal beneath the walls of Graukolos was a nervous one, and she could barely swallow a bite. This would not draw any suspicion, she knew – what maiden wasn’t nervous before her wedding? Sitting with her father at the high table she gazed about the Great Hall and tried to take in all its details one last time: the rich hangings depicting her ancestral coat of arms, and the scenes of hunting, warfare and tourneying that her father so enjoyed.
