Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (10 page)

Memories came to her then of other, similar dreams in her past, a dark shadowy figure always hovering just beyond her vision.

“Make it stop,” she whimpered.
Or had she just thought it?

“Wake, girl!”

“My lady.” Voices spoke over each other. She tried to focus, but the pain was unbearable.

A vision appeared before her. She wanted to scream as she stared into cold, cruel eyes.
The Lord of the Dark has come for me,
she thought.

“My lady, what is wrong?” a softer, more familiar voice.

“Move aside, girl.” The pale eyes bored into her, chasing away the sun, snatching her from the ramparts of her father’s palace.

The Lord of the Dark has abducted me to his own realm.
She wretched again, choking back tears.
Bring back the sun, please.
She choked as her throat burned raw.

“Poison,” someone spat the word.

“Aye, and there’s sorcery at work here,” another said.

Poison - sorcery,
the thoughts reverberated around her mind. She coughed, expelling bile and dark viscous blood in equal quantities. Her head throbbed, her stomach burned like she’d been run through with a spear. Slowly the room came into focus. Her handmaiden was there, her face twisted in concern. The cruel eyes watched her too, and she recognised them. Those very same ones had watched her every night since she had been wed, filled with hunger and lust. How many times had she been unable to look into them as he rutted on top of her. The eyes that had taken her from her home, maybe not those of The Lord of the Dark, but not so far away as to make little difference to her. Crawulf, her husband, barked orders she did not understand, to men she did not recognise. She was confused. Had one dark figure controlling her life been chased back into the shadows by another?

Pain gripped her like a fist clenching and twisting in her gut.
Sorcery.
The word echoed in her mind.

“Seal the gates! No one leaves or enters the castle until I have the heart of whoever has done this in my hand!” She could hear Crawulf barking orders.

Rough hands pulled and prodded her. Her jaw was pulled open and a cool liquid slid down her throat, making her gag and cough. Yet, she still had not the strength to lift her head.
It burns.
She wanted to protest, but no words came out. Blackness beckoned her.
Oblivion calls to me.
She yearned to see her father’s lands again, to feel the heat of the sun on her face. Her head throbbed, making her wonder if the darkness would be such a bad place after all. To feel no more pain. A release from the captivity of her marriage and life in a harsh, new world.

“Drink this, child.” Words drifted over her, she could no longer place voices with faces.

I did all you ever bid me do, Father. I don’t want to die.
A chasm yawned before her, cold and dark.

A sharp pain stung her cheek. “Come back to me, girl.” She felt another slap on her face. It was enough of a shock to snap her attention from the darkness. “The potion will soothe your pain.”

I don’t want to die.

***

Crawulf stood behind his counsellor, Brandlor, as the old man gently pulled down his new bride’s jaw and poured a vial of creamy liquid down her throat. Rage ignited inside him as he watched the stricken princess gag and choke on the elixir. The depth of feeling he bore her took him by surprise. He had not realised how he had grown fond of his exotic new wife, with her odd southern ways and delicate sensibilities. The sight of her unblemished, olive-coloured skin sent a fire raging through his loins every time she disrobed. Yet, there was more to it. He enjoyed her company, felt a ridiculous thrill when she smiled. Seeing her face contorted in agony set anger boiling through him.

“Whoever has done this shall suffer like no man has ever suffered before!” he stormed. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, gritted his teeth as his eyes bulged and his face flushed red. Rosinnio’s handmaiden flinched when he glared at her, fear in her eyes. He ignored her.

A warrior rushed into the chamber. “Jarl Crawulf, riders have been spotted fleeing the castle beyond the west wall,” he said, gulping down breath.

Crawulf slammed his fist against the hard stone wall. “Bring my sword and armour! Prepare my horse. We will ride them down before they reach Whalebone Beach.”

“Aye, my lord,” the warrior answered as men hurried to do their lord’s bidding, grabbing weapons, barking instructions into the air. Crawulf stormed from the chamber and through the castle with thunder in his eyes.

He climbed into the saddle with the aid of a stable boy. A dozen riders, with armour and weapons jingling, pulled on reins to control restless horses as the beasts stomped excitedly in the courtyard. The breath of mounts and men misted in the cold morning air as the heavy wooden gates slowly creaked open.

“I want them alive!” Crawulf roared over the noise as he kicked his horse’s flanks, urging the animal onward. The sound of clopping hooves reverberated around the courtyard and beyond. Men and women rushed out beyond the gate, to watch their jarl lead his small band of men west, until they were dark specks in the distance.

He was sure he knew where they were headed, a small cove to the west of the island often used by fishermen and others who were not inclined to announce their arrival on his shores by entering the main harbour. If he had to kill his horses to catch them before they reached the vessel which was surely waiting for them, then he would.

As it happened there was no need to destroy the mounts as Crawulf and his housecarls rode down their quarry before they reached the beach. They had stopped in clear view on the open grassland, which dominated the windswept island, close to a small copse of trees. Perhaps they had sought to seek shelter in the trees, or perhaps they had not expected to be followed, Crawulf thought. No matter, they had been caught and he would ensure their deaths would not be easy.

“Hold!” he barked at them when they came into sight. The three men made no attempt to escape. He kicked his horse towards them, anger coursing through his body, an image of the lady Rosinnio choking on her own bile fresh in his mind.

As the group of riders neared the three men, one of Crawulf’s warriors let out a cry of warning, “The trees!” He turned to look where his man was pointing. Dark shapes melted from the copse. Shadows that became men. The three assassins kicked their mounts and galloped towards the line of warriors.

“What’s this?” Crawulf growled.

“I count three score, my lord,” a grizzled grey-beard, with a scar running from forehead to chin answered. Crawulf watched as they formed a battle line, three deep. The clatter of wooden shields locking together reverberated around the rock-strewn grassland. Wind bearing the smells and sounds of the sea made his eyes water as he stared at the strangers.

“We will easily outrun them, my lord, and return with a larger force.”

Crawulf ignored his man’s words as he tugged at the end of his beard. Something did not sit right here, he thought. He watched as the opposing force began moving slowly towards his small band of horse-men, beating their weapons off their shields. Crawulf was familiar with the rhythm – the symphony of battle.

“Aye,” he finally agreed, “they are too many. We will return with more men and chase these whoresons to the bottom of Baltagor’s realm. Even so, it left a bitter taste in his mouth to run from the challenge of battle as insults and the barking jeers of men filled the air. “I will have all of their heads placed on spikes and left for the sea air to rot the flesh from their skulls,” he snarled. It hurt even more to know that the three would-be assassins had slipped from his grasp.

“Gods protect us,” one of the men gasped. Crawulf swung around in his saddle just as a noise like thunder rolled over them. More shapes darkened the horizon as mounted men crested a hill behind them. “Trapped,” the same man spat.

Trap,
the word crept into his head. “This smells of trickery and deceit,” he growled. “Ride!” he barked then, kicking his mount’s flanks.

A black cloud suddenly launched into the air above the shield-wall and travelled at speed towards the fleeing horse-men. A hail of arrows rained down on them. Most clattered harmlessly off mail armour. Some though found a mark leaving three riderless horses running amongst Crawulf’s group of housecarls. Warriors ran to intercept them, while behind the same number again of horsemen galloped towards them. A horse screeched and then its legs collapsed bringing down its rider. Crawulf kicked his own mount and vaulted the stricken beast and man, as more arrows studded the ground around him. He wheeled in the opposite direction to
turn away from the warriors attempting to intercept him.
This is no way to die,
he thought and turned back again, pointing his horse directly at the line of warriors. He drew his sword, sensing his men around him do the same, even as they urged their mounts onwards.

“Kill the bastards!” he shouted over the din of battle.

“Crawulf!” his men roared back, and “Wind Isle!”

The small band of horsemen formed a line as they galloped towards the enemy. As one, they lowered the points of their swords, aiming them at the line of shields before them. Behind them mounted warriors whipped and shouted at their own horses, eager to join the battle.

For Crawulf, everything slowed down, even as he sped towards the wall of round wooden shields and bristling spear points. His mind empty of all thought as instinct and battle-sense took over. He heard a roaring sound like the ocean breaking over rocks as the familiar battle-rage overcame him. Then, it was chaos. The sound of iron beating on wood and mail, of men screaming and dying sang loudly in his ears as he smashed through the line, swinging his sword at all who stood in his way. His horse reared and trampled a warrior who tried to block him, while he swept the head off another with a single blow, the momentum of the charge adding the strength of a war-horse to his stroke.

The line was thin and the charging band broke through to the other side, leaving devastation in their wake. They had not emerged unscathed either, two more of Crawulf’s men had fallen, leaving only six left alive. All were bloodied from both their own wounds and of the men they had killed. Another charge and the spearmen would break. They had advantage of numbers, but facing down the charge of mounted warriors on horses bred for battle is no easy thing. The large group of riders were now almost upon them.
Now this is a way to die
, he thought, as a bitter smile touched his lips. Sucking in deep breaths, he prepared for one more charge.

“Jarl Crawulf,” the scarred grey-beard spoke up. He had fought alongside Crawulf, and his father before him, for a score and ten years, earned the scar in defence of his jarl while raiding in lands to the far south. His name was Jarnheim. “Ride, my lord, this is not a place for you to fall.” Their eyes met, and Crawulf read the implacable strength there. The resolve to die. “Go, we will buy what time we can. Avenge us!” He roared the last part as the remaining men dug their heels into the flanks of their mounts and turned to face the enemy again.

Crawulf paused for only a heartbeat. It cut deeper than any blade to flee the battle, leaving his own men to die for his sake. Dying with them though would serve no purpose. “Ha!” He slapped his mount’s rump with the flat of his blade, not looking back as the sounds of screaming men and horses washed over him, ending all too briefly.

Keeping low in the saddle, he raced towards the coast, if for no other reason than the way back to his castle was barred by mounted warriors. He knew they were following him, could hear them urging their own beasts to keep pace with him. When he glanced over his shoulder he could see them, all too close for his liking. As the wind grew in intensity carrying the salty smell of the sea and white puffs of foam, he knew his horse was tiring. He had ridden him hard in the pursuit of the assassins, rode him into battle and now he had reached the end of his endurance.

The great grey sea stretched out before him all the way to the horizon where it became one with a cloud-filled sky the colour of iron. If only he rode Greystorm, the mighty steed of Alweise, who could sprout wings and carry his master across the sky.

Man and beast slowed as his horse’s heart could take no more. He slid from the saddle, leaving the sweating and panting animal and dragged his sword from its scabbard. The riders made a semi-circle in front of him. He glared at their triumphant faces. Behind him was a cliff and beyond that the ocean for as far as the eye could see. Four men dismounted. All hefted great double-bladed Nort-axes.

Crawulf spat and planted his feet firmly in the ground. More than one would die before he fell. The four circled him warily. All knew of the fearsome reputation of Crawulf and his prowess with a blade. He snarled and leapt towards the one closest, swinging his sword as he did so. He was rewarded with a cry of pain as one of his assailants dropped to his knees. Before he could deliver a killing blow, the other three rushed him. He parried one axe and kicked out at another attacker before pain erupted in his head. He staggered back, his sword slipping from his fingers. He heard a laugh as he tried to keep his balance. A blurred silhouette of a figure on horseback dominated his vision.

“Good-bye, Jarl Crawulf.”

He had the briefest sensation that he was flying, he could taste the brine as water washed over him, just before all went black.

Tomas: Woodvale Village

T
omas stepped over the bodies of the two guards and walked into the burnt-out rubble that was once his home, now little more than a fire-blackened shell. His jaw was set hard in grim determination as he picked through the destroyed wreckage of his belongings. Nothing it seemed had survived the fire. Out back his workshop remained unscathed, although the door hung open and he could already see the carnage caused by the magistrate’s guards. He eyed the mess with a cold detachment, no longer caring about his life as the town blacksmith. His eyes quickly scanned for the hidden hatch beneath a workbench. He heaved the bench away from the wall, grunting with the effort as pain flared in his shoulder.