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

by Damien Black

‘I hope Your Majesty will not next be considering extending them north of the Rymold,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Reus dammit, man!’ shouted the King, losing his temper. ‘I’ve just lost my brother and nearly lost my first son, and hundreds of other good men besides! These lords and knights rose against me in rebellion! REBELLION! How many homesteads have they pillaged and burned these last six weeks? How many peasants have they violated and slaughtered? And how do you know I wasn’t planning to install an Efrilunder in one of the southern provinces in any case?’

  The three lords looked visibly mollified.

  ‘Ah, that reassures you does it?’ said Freidheim, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Well, then be reassured – if I have to make your younger sons southern lords to keep you happy, I’ll do so! Now if that’s all the bad news for one day, I’d like to retire – we’ve another long march ahead of us tomorrow. I want to finish this accursed business as soon as I can.’

  He was about to leave when Visigard spoke again.

  ‘What of the squires held captive, Your Majesty – shall we ransom them, or...?’

  The King paused to consider this. ‘How many are worth anything?’

  ‘Some thirty are from noble families. The rest are common men who were promoted to lifelong knightly servitude. They won’t fetch anything – we can dispose of them perhaps.’

  The King shook his head. ‘Nay, I’ve nothing against an ordinary man following orders and trying to make his way in the world,’ he said wearily. ‘The twenty commoners will be held prisoner and released after the war. As for the other thirty, they can hang tomorrow with the rest of their noble kin – I’ve learned the hard way what happens when you spare a lordling’s life out of pity.’

  Without another word Freidheim stalked from the tent. He didn’t know which was worse – watching men die in the heat of battle, or coldly ordering their execution. He did know one thing though – he was sick of war. He had seen enough killing to last a lifetime. But then that probably had something to do with the fact that it had.

  Making his way through the camp Adelko went in search of his Highland kin. A yearning to make contact with his own people had grown steadily in him during the march to war. Now war had been joined he wanted to set eyes on them all the more – before any more of them died.

  Was that homesickness? He supposed so, but the tumultuous events of the day had robbed him of any ability to assess his feelings. He was making his way past a campfire in the Stromlending contingent when he spotted Horskram sitting with a knight. His surprise tapered off as he remembered that his mentor hailed from the lands around Lake Strom.

  Just then the knight happened to glance over at him. Waving a mailed arm he called him over cheerfully.

  ‘And you must be Adelko!’ he exclaimed as the novice approached. ‘My uncle was just telling me all about you!’

  Walking deeper into the circle of light Adelko drew level with the pair of them and bowed low.

  ‘Adelko of Narvik, novice of Ulfang, at your service,’ he said deferentially.

  The knight laughed at this, a merry twinkle in his eyes. ‘Well, uncle, you’ve certainly taught the boy more manners than you ever had!’

  The two were clearly related. The knight bore a strong resemblance to his mentor: he had the same aquiline features and hooked nose. His black beard was streaked with incipient grey – he looked to be about forty winters. He was of similar build and stature to Horskram.

  ‘This is my nephew, Sir Manfry of Vilno, vassal to the Jarl of Stromlund,’ said Horskram. ‘And I would appreciate it, Manfry, if you would be more civil to your elders, even a poor monk such as I am.’

  ‘Why nonsense!’ cried Manfry, motioning for Adelko to sit and join them. ‘You weren’t always a poor friar – in your day you couched a lance as well as the next man, my father included! Adelko, did you know that your master once reached the jousting final at Linden?’

  Adelko was by now not entirely surprised to learn this, although he still could not picture his mentor as a mail-clad knight.

  ‘No...’ he faltered. ‘I mean, begging your pardon Master Horskram, but I’ve seen him fight with a quarterstaff and he’s very good at it...’

  ‘Quarterstaves?’ exclaimed Sir Manfry with an air of mock incredulity. ‘Why nonsense! Brother Horskram here – or Sir Horskram as they used to call him back then – was once accounted one of the best swords in the jarldom! Now remind me uncle, who was it you lost to in that final at Linden?’

  Adelko was half expecting to hear a rebuke from his curmudgeonly master, but to his surprise the old monk’s face took on a slightly dreamy look as he said with a half smile: ‘Sir Freye of Orlin – the best knight I ever couched a lance against, bar none. At least the runner-up prize was generous at Linden – I gave it all to the Temple of course.’

  ‘Always the pious one – even back then!’ chuckled Manfry. Though they looked similar, in demeanour they could not have been more different – Manfry was jollier than a court jester.

  ‘If I’d known better, I’d have given it to the Order of St Argo,’ replied Horskram reproachfully, his face darkening again. ‘But I was young in years, and still had much to learn.’

  He fell to his characteristic brooding again, staring glumly into the fire. But Manfry was having none of it.

  ‘Oh nonsense! Why, you’ve made up for it tenfold since with your service to the Order! Come come, uncle, I understand how you feel about bloodshed these days, but there’s no denying we’ve just won a remarkable victory against a bunch of treasonous rebels – who some say have thrown their lot in with a black magician! That alone should be good cause enough to rest your soul! Upon my troth, this is a time to celebrate, not commiserate! I’ll call for horns of ale – Adelko, you’re having one too.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sire, but I was hoping to seek kin of my own, well in a manner of speaking – do you know where the Highlanders are encamped?’

  Sir Manfry fixed him with a quizzical look. ‘Why, are the clansmen your kin?’

  ‘No,’ faltered Adelko. ‘I’m of much more humble stock – my father is a blacksmith in Narvik, a highland village. But I just wanted... well, to see some of my own people. It’s been so long since I did.’

  ‘He spends years dreaming of leaving his homeland behind, and when he finally does, he gets homesick,’ muttered Horskram with a wry shake of the head.

  ‘Oh stuff and nonsense, uncle!’ said Sir Manfry dismissively. ‘You of all people should be wise enough to know that the heart’s desires twist and turn like an old road – keep heading in the same direction as you were Adelko, and you should find them presently! Their camp’s just beyond ours – doughty men those Highlanders, for foreigners anyway! But when you are done visiting your kin, you must come back and drink a horn with us.’

  ‘That I shall do gladly,’ replied Adelko happily, before bounding off.

  It was not long before he reached the Highlanders’ campsite. Like all the other contingents, they had brought along an entourage of craftsmen, cooks and the like to support the warriors’ needs, although theirs was noticeably smaller than those of the lowland knights – clansmen prided themselves on self-sufficiency.

  The camp was crowned with the same banners he had seen from atop the King’s palace, each one a riot of clan colours. Adelko soon found his own – the interlocking yellow and green diamonds of the MacLingens who ruled his part of the Highlands.

  Two battle-stained clansmen greeted him as he approached the campfire. They were both clad in mail hauberks, swaddled with the woollen saches sporting their colours. Each one leaned on a double-headed war-axe. Their crimson beards were braided after the manner of the Highland warrior caste.

  ‘And what service may we do a man of the cloth?’ asked one, gruffly but not unkindly.

  Adelko was about to reply when a familiar voice called out his name. Turning he saw a tall, muscular man dressed in artisan’s garb walking towards him.

 
‘Adelko!’ he repeated. ‘Bless my eyes, but can it be you?’

  It took Adelko several moments to register who he was looking at. The artisan was a stout fellow of about twenty summers – his forearms and apron were covered with soot, and his face was blackened too. But this close it was unmistakeable.

  ‘Arik!’ cried Adelko. ‘Arik, can it really be you?’

  ‘Adelko!’ cried Arik again, taking his youngest brother in a mighty embrace. ‘It really is you! Almighty be praised! I could not have hoped to see you here, of all places!’

  ‘He works in mysterious ways,’ said Adelko, choking back tears.

  Quickly the two took a place by the fire and Arik called for horns of ale. Adelko pressed him eagerly for news of home.

  ‘Father is still hale,’ he said, quaffing from a frothing horn. ‘Though a little slower about the forge these days. Malrok will take over the family business when the time comes.’

  That surprised Adelko. Usually the eldest did this, leaving the younger sons to seek a trade elsewhere as best they could. Arik shook his head when he pointed this out.

  ‘Nay, it’s a household life for me Adelko!’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was taken in by old Whaelfric two summers ago – I’m an armourer these days. No more horseshoes for me – Malrok is welcome to them!’

  ‘What about Silma?’ asked Adelko, suddenly remembering his elder brother’s betrothed. ‘Did you...’

  A mixed expression crossed Arik’s soot-smeared face.

  ‘Aye, we married – shortly after you left with Master Horskram to join the Order,’ he replied. ‘We have two children – we had a third but she was stillborn.’ Though the sadness in his face was obvious as he said this, Adelko could sense it had other sources.

  ‘What is it, Arik?’ he pressed gently. ‘You can tell me.’ It felt peculiar to be addressing his older brother as a fellow adult for the first time.

  A pained look crossed Arik’s face. ‘Ah...’ he faltered, waving his horn as if searching for the right words. ‘Adelko, you’re a monk of the Order now, and will never have to face such problems. Silma… well she is still as beautiful to me as the day I first courted her but... married life is different. It changes a person, I tell you. She isn’t happy about my being here.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ asked Adelko.

  ‘She’s back at Whaelfric’s homestead, where we have modest lodgings. Reus knows I’ve set her up better than my father or anyone else in Narvik could have hoped to – but dammit Adelko, that woman is never happy! I don’t know what more a man can do to satisfy his wife...’

  Seeing the look of anguish on his elder brother’s face Adelko felt a stab of pity. Perhaps a celibate life wasn’t such a bad one after all – the adepts at the monastery taught that gratifying earthly desires always brought one to misery in the end.

  ‘Ah, but let us not dwell on such things!’ said Arik suddenly, banishing his black mood. ‘We’ve won a great battle today, though it’s cost us dear – hopefully in a few days’ time we’ll win another one!’

  Adelko felt his high spirits dampen. ‘Will it be fought so soon?’ he asked hesitantly.

  ‘Oh I should think so,’ replied his brother, taking another slug of ale. ‘That’s what the clansmen are saying anyway – there’s no time to lose and we must press our advantage.’

  Adelko nodded and pressed his brother for more news of home. War was the last thing he wanted to talk about now.

  ‘Well now,’ said Arik, thankfully warming to the subject, ‘Malrok is courting too – a young lass by the name of Magda who lives in Rykken. I hope he has better luck in his choice of wife than I did!’

  Adelko did his best to suppress a shudder as memory of the exorcism there came back to him – the very encounter that had set them off on their frightful quest. He’d thought about it more than once since Horskram had recounted it again, at the secret council in Strongholm three weeks ago. Something about Belaach’s words didn’t add up, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. But then a demon’s words were intended to trick and confound – he should pay little heed to them.

  Arik was too caught up in his stories to notice his younger brother’s troubled expression. ‘And speaking of marriage, you’ll never guess what,’ he said, the smile returning to his honest face. ‘Albhra married Ludo!’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Adelko, his ugly thoughts vanishing in a trice. ‘Ludo the fiddler married Albhra the harridan? I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ guffawed Arik. ‘Those two were bound to do it eventually – Reus knows a man and a woman can’t argue that much without having strong feelings for each other! Perhaps I should bear that in mind when I think of Silma!’

  ‘What about my old friends? What of Ulam?’

  Arik frowned. ‘He turned out to be a bad sort. Caught thieving from the granary last winter. Malgar would have had him shunned for it, only Radna was moved to pity for the lad. Last I heard, he keeps foul company, drinking his father’s house dry and doing not a stroke of work. He’ll be banished for real before long.’

  Adelko frowned back. Ulam had always been a mischief-maker, the ringleader in any village prank among the boys. But then he himself had been no angel in his youth. He wondered if he might have turned out the same way had it not been for Horskram’s intervention. He pushed the thought away and inquired further after Narvik’s three headmen.

  ‘Well, old Balor passed three winters ago,’ replied Arik, making the sign. ‘But at least thanks to your master his passing was a godly one. Dreadful business that was – how is the old monk, by the way? Still hale I hope.’

  ‘Still hale and very much here,’ replied Adelko. ‘I’ve been seconded to him for the best part of the last year.’

  Arik raised his eyebrows. He was clearly impressed. ‘Bless me, young Adelko, but you do move up fast in the world! And I thought I was doing well! Even us Highlanders know Master Horskram’s name precedes him throughout the lowlands! But tell me of yourself – how do the pair of you come to be here? I thought you Argolians are supposed to be off fighting werewolves and demons when you’re not shut up in the monastery praying and studying.’

  Adelko related as much of his story as he felt he could without jeopardising their mission or frightening his brother too much. Though Arik had matured into a sturdy young man, his was an ordinary soul and his mind would only be able to stand so much.

  The two of them had got through another horn of ale by the time Adelko was done.

  ‘Well that is a tale and no mistake,’ said Arik at last, his face looking anxious in the firelight. ‘Adelko, I’m just a simple armourer, and this war is about the most adventurous thing I’ve yet seen – but it sounds to me as if Master Horskram has taken you to some dangerous places! I do hope he’ll take care to see you safe on the rest of your journey.’

  Despite the cheering ale Adelko felt as anxious as his brother looked. He knew full well by now that for all his acumen Horskram was far from immortal or infallible. In the business they had undertaken he could guarantee no one’s safety, not even his own.

  Forcing a smile he replied: ‘Horskram is both wise and powerful, and I learn new things from him every day. If anyone can see us through, he will.’

  Arik nodded absently, seemingly contented with this response. Then looking again at his younger brother he grinned over his empty horn.

  ‘But by all the archangels, Adelko, it’s good to see you!’

  ‘It’s good to see you too!’ said Adelko, his joy returning to banish his dark thoughts.

  They embraced again and called for another round of ale – the victorious camp was in high spirits and the quartermasters were being generous.

  The two talked long into the night, of Narvik and their old life together, of shared memories, and of the other villagers including Aunt Madrice. Adelko was pleased to hear she was still in good health and shrewd as ever.

  ‘She thinks of you always and says a prayer for you every night,’ said Arik earnestly. ‘You know, whe
n this war is done and your private quest is finished, you should go back home and visit. Everyone would love to see you – and they’d be right proud of you too.’

  A wistful sadness came over Adelko then. He had no idea when that would be, or if he would even live to do it.

  When at last the curfew was called he rose, somewhat groggily after a fourth horn of ale, to bid his brother farewell and return to his tent. They arranged to meet again at the final victory feast, Almighty willing.

  His mentor was fast asleep when he entered the tent they shared. Curling up on his pallet Adelko drifted off a few seconds later. He dreamed vivid happy dreams that night, of a joyous homecoming and long-lost family and friends rediscovered. The wan morning that awakened him was far from welcome.

  CHAPTER XI

  The Blade and the Noose

  ‘Left, up, down, right, right, left, down, up, up, up, right, left!’

  Braxus called out the commands; the ring of steel on steel followed a split second later as Vaskrian responded to his commands.

  They had been at it for a good fifteen minutes when the Thraxian called a halt.

  ‘Good, very good,’ he told the flushed squire. ‘You defend well, and your footwork isn’t bad at all – but it could be better. If you take service with me, I’ll teach you some Thraxian moves in that area that should help you. In all honesty, you Northlendings have ever been better riders and swordsmen than us on the whole – but you don’t move as well. I think we can be of benefit to one another, Vaskrian.’

  The foreign knight was smiling encouragingly, but even so Vaskrian wasn’t sure.

  Could he really be seen to take service with a foreigner?

  Braxus must have read his expression, for he suddenly frowned and said: ‘Come, what ails thee lad? Is this proposition not agreeable to you?’

  ‘It is, sire,’ replied Vaskrian with uncharacteristic caution. ‘It’s just that... I still haven’t told Lord Fenrig about Sir Branas, and now with Sir Ulfstan dead too...’

  ‘... you are once more a squire without a knight to serve,’ Sir Braxus finished for him. ‘Just as I am a knight without a squire, for as I’ve told you poor Paidlin will never walk again without a crutch. Plus you saved my life on yonder battlefield – I owe you a boon, lad, and I mean to repay my debt in full.’