Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (2 page)

A nervous, swarthy-skinned captain walked down the gangplank, followed by several of his officers. “My lord.” He bowed extravagantly from the waist.

“Well met, Captain. I witnessed a fine piece of seamanship today,” Crawulf said, inclining his head.

“You have wild seas, my lord. I did not think we would make it.”

“I was never in doubt, Captain. But praise the gods. And your cargo, is it safe?”

“A little shaken, my lord, but yes, quite safe.”

Crawulf beamed a smile at the news.

“So where…” he began but stopped short when he saw a dark-haired girl, dressed in an unseasonal, and impractical, emerald green gown, so thin and delicate he thought she might be swept away by the wind. She glided down the gangplank with a stiff back, her hair tied on top of her head with ribbons and pearls. Crawulf’s jaw dropped. Never before had he seen such exotic beauty. “Princess Rosinnio,” he whispered her name.

The princess approached him, curtsied, and promptly threw up all over his leather boots.

Lorian: Alcraz, capital city of Sunsai Empire

“G
ods curse this heat,” the fat noble grumbled as he fanned his face with a silk cloth. Even the overhead canopy failed to keep him cool. He snatched a goblet from a tray held by a tall servant standing, stiff-backed, in the full blaze of the midday sun.

“Oh, drink your wine and stop grumbling, Lorian,” a second man, seated beside him in the second tier of the arena said. Below them on a dusty playing field thirty men stripped to the waist and armed with sticks fought over an inflated pig’s bladder. Half of the players wore a red ribbon tied around their arm, the other half a blue one. A cheer reverberated around the arena as a melee broke out between the opposing teams. Neither of the two men reacted to the excitement.

“What else is one to do in such heat?” Lorian complained. He leaned in closer to his companion, glanced about conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “Have you heard the latest rumour coming from the palace?”

“No,” the second man answered, leaning closer.

“Word is… the emperor has sent Rosinnio north.” He smiled as he sat back in is chair. He rolled a date between his forefinger and thumb before popping it into his mouth. Each finger, on a fleshy hand, bore a heavy gold ring.

“Well stop looking so pleased with yourself, Lorian, and do continue.”

Lorian mopped his glistening brow with a square of bright silk, shifted his huge bulk and smiled. “He has sent her to become bride to some king of the Pirate Isles.”

“No! His favourite? Surely he would not subject his youngest daughter to such a life,” he said, looking thoughtfully over the fat noble’s shoulder.

“Remember Brioni, his eldest? He sent her to the nomads of the Uncha Mort. She roams that desolate desert with all she owns packed on the back of a horse now. When it comes to politics he has no favourites. Poor Brioni, she was such a fun girl too. And now Rosinnio. The poor little bird will never see the sunshine again. They say the Pirate Isles are forever shrouded in mist, and the rain only ceases for the snow.”

“How is it you come by such information, always ahead of time?” the second man asked as he stroked his trimmed beard, still staring into the distance.

The fat man smiled. “I have my ways, my friend, I have my ways.”

“Incidentally, I would not use the name, ‘Pirate Isles,’ in front of a Nortman or you will likely lose your head,” the man said, a smile spreading across his face.

“Ha! I think it unlikely I will ever visit Nortland. The very thought sends a chill into my bones. Is this wretched game nearly over yet?” Lorian then grumbled as he turned his attention back to the thirty players almost made invisible by a swirling dust cloud. Barely had the fat man finished when a horn sounded. “Praise the gods,” he said, raising his eyes towards the clear blue sky.

“Don’t you have a taste for clubs?” his companion asked. “Surely the sight of athletes in their prime is enough to stir the blood. Do they not at least whet your appetite for the main event?”

“No, they do not. Watching two groups of men chasing a bladder and trying to hit it and each other with sticks does not appeal to me,” he replied, before turning around to his servant. “More wine. This jug is empty.” The servant bowed and silently took the empty vessel from his outstretched hand.

“Do not think of it as sport, think of it as war. The two teams are opposing armies, the field of play a battlefield. From the sideline the generals give their commands and their troops act upon those instructions.”

“You have not convinced me,” Lorian said.

“You know it is not so long since they used the heads of captives instead of a bladder.”

Three blasts of a horn sounded, sending an excited ripple through the crowd. “Ah, at last! Now we will see real battle.” The fat man grinned.

“Who are the fighters?” the other man asked.

“The Summalian, Bordron, and Rolfgot.” Lorian grinned. “A Nortman.” The grin turned to laughter.

“Oh. How ironic.”

“Yes,” Lorian agreed. “I do enjoy the little jests the fates throw at us from time to time.” A cheer rose and washed over the crowd as a fanfare sounded announcing the arrival of the combatants. They entered the arena from either side, to be greeted with a wall of thunderous noise. Lorian and his companion rose to their feet and joined in the applause.

“Is it to the death?”

“Yes!” Lorian beamed. “Yes, it is.”

The crowd settled as an announcer walked into the centre of the arena. He first introduced, to muted applause, the Nortman, Rolfgot. A massive blond warrior strode confidently from a dark tunnel at one end. He was stripped to the waist; his hair fell loosely down his back. Muscles bunched and rippled across his back and down his forearms. In his hand he carried a huge, two-handed great-sword. He came to a halt yards before the announcer, spat once and glared disdainfully into the crowd. A rumble of boos echoed around the arena.

“Huror, Huror! Where is that wretched man?” Lorian turned agitatedly in his seat.

“You sent him for wine.”

“Curse his eyes, how long does it take to fetch a jug of wine?”

“Oh, calm down, Lorian. What is the matter?”

“I wish to place a wager on the bout. They will not take it once the fight has begun. Huror!” the fat man bellowed.

“Yes, Master.” The servant hurried over, placing a jug in front of Lorian.

“What took so long?” he snarled.

“The crowd, Master. It is not so easy to pass through it.”

“Never mind. Here, take this, and place five gold crowns on the Summalian. And see that you get favourable odds.” He fished the coins from a purse on his belt and dropped them into the servant’s open palm.

“Yes, Master.” The tall servant bowed deeply before closing his fist around the coins and turning away.

“Five crowns?” the other man whistled. “What about a side wager? What odds on the Nortman?”

Lorian looked at his companion with narrowed eyes. “Are you holding information back from me?” he asked suspiciously.

“No, of course not. The other man laughed. “I pride myself on being a good judge of men, and I like how he moves.”

“So you would wager your intuition against the three times arena champion?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” Lorian grinned. “Ten gold crowns will get you twenty.”

“Twenty? An unknown against the undefeated arena champion? Make it fifty.”

“Fifty?” Lorian spluttered a mouthful of wine. “Do you take me for a fool? Anything could happen out there.”

“Forty then.”

“Thirty, no more.”

“Done!” The other man grinned.

A thunderous noise rolled around the arena. The two men could feel it reverberating up from the platform where they stood. All around them people were stamping their feet and clapping their hands together, chanting a chorus of, Bordron! Bordron! An ebony-skinned giant strode towards the centre of the arena. He wore a leopard skin loincloth, the head still attached and hanging over his shoulder. Strapped to his left arm was a round wooden shield, in the other he carried a long spear.

“Lords, ladies, and all others assembled here today!” the announcer bellowed, his resonant voice silenced the crowd as his words carried to every part of the circular arena. “Salute the men who will die for you this day!” The arena shook with the noise. With a sharp nod of his head towards the combatants he scuttled away and disappeared from sight.

The two warriors circled each other warily, tension and excitement rippled through the crowd. The Nortman was tall and broad, his upper body heavily muscled, the Summalian taller again, but lighter. Rolfgot struck first, hefting the great-sword with both hands. He spun on his heel, the blade swinging through the air in an arc. The dark-skinned fighter snarled, a flash of white teeth contrasting against his complexion, he deftly blocked the sword with his shield and stabbed out with the spear, catching the paler-skinned man in the side. The crowd erupted at the first sight of blood. Both men stepped back from each other.

“First blood to me.” Lorian grinned at his companion, who did not answer.

The Nortman lunged again, leading with the point of his blade this time. Again the taller warrior sidestepped and smashed his shield into his opponent’s face. Rolfgot staggered back and spat out a mouthful of blood. The Summalian lunged with his spear, catching the swordsman in the shoulder, another wound opened. Bordron openly grinned now.

“Oh, he’s toying with him, this will be over soon and I will be considerably richer.” Lorian beamed and gulped back his wine, the red liquid dribbling down his chin, drops pooled on the wooden floor at his feet.

Both spear wounds bled visibly on the white skin of the Nortman. His face too had a crimson smear across his mouth. The crowd urged the tall Summalian to finish him off. Those few who had backed the Nortman with their gold turned away in disgust, as once again the spear point found soft yielding flesh. The Nortman dropped to one knee, and the crowd erupted in a wall of noise. Spurred on by the adulation of the crowd, the dark-skinned Summalian advanced, drawing back his spear. Rolfgot leapt up, apparently not so injured as he at first appeared, driving his sword under the ribs of his opponent and wrenching it up with a grunt. Bordron’s eyes opened wide. The big Nortman pulled his sword free and spat a mouthful of blood at the falling body of his opponent. The crowd was stunned into silence, their favourite, the three times arena champion, the undefeated Summalian, Bordron crashed to the dust, dead.

Lorian scowled at his grinning companion as Rolfgot spun around raising his sword as he did so and brought the blade down on the neck of Bordron, severing his head. The gods themselves could not but have heard the thunderous noise coming from the arena moments later.

 Duke Normand: Besieging the walls of Eorotia

D
uke Erik Normand glanced up from the parchment stretched out on the table in front of him. Fanned out before him were his chosen men, a collection of knights and advisors. Rain drummed a steady beat on the canvas tent which had been his home and central command for the past weeks. “Are the engines in place?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” a young warrior answered. Duke Normand regarded him coldly before turning away in silence. He traced out, with a finger, the dark lines scratched onto the parchment, a map of the Duchies, and the lands beyond its borders. Spidery script marked his own small segment of the kingdom, the duchy of Lenstir, a tract of boggy and mountainous territory gifted to his ancestor by the then king for his loyalty and bravery in battle. He had grand aspirations to increase its size and with it his standing at court.

He dismissed his momentary lack in concentration and snarled at his knights, “Well get to it then!” A chorus of, ‘Yes, my lord,’ followed, as the men filed from the tent in a rattle of swords and armour. He poured a rich amber liquid into a silver goblet. He grimaced as the strong brandy burnt all the way down, before turning his attention to the only remaining occupant of the tent. A man with shoulder length grey hair and thick, wiry beard sat in a chair in the corner. He wore a simple, hooded woollen robe. If there had once been any colour to the free flowing garment, the dye had long since washed out, leaving it a dull brownie grey. Duke Normand rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and refilled the goblet.

“You should sleep, my lord. I can see the weariness in you,” the grey-beard said, as he stood up.

“Sleep? Are you jesting with me? Here of all places, under the walls of the Thieves Citadel?”

“You need to trust me, my lord. The priestesses will not enter your dreams while I protect you.”

“So you say, Mage. Did you see the fear on the faces of my men? They all know the legends, they have grown up with the stories…” He half drained the goblet again without finishing the sentence. Worry lines creased his forehead. He could hear the sounds of a mobilising army just beyond the entrance to his command tent – barked orders from officers and sergeants, the rattle of bridles and snorts of horses. Beyond his lines lay the fortified city of Eorotia or, as it was more commonly known, the Thieves Citadel. A thorn in the side of every Duke of Lenstir since his family had been granted the duchy. The city was a den of brigands, assassins and pirates, yet successive generations of dukes had allowed it to flourish on their doorstep. Until now. The reason: the city was sanctuary to the Priestesses of Eor, some called them the Shadow Sisters, others the Dream Cult, for they possessed the power to enter a man’s dreams and kill him while he slept. There was no defence against them, no wall could stop them, no barred gate or armoured sentries would deter them.

“You have nothing to fear from the Shadow Sisters. They will not penetrate my wards,” the mage answered.

“For centuries Eorotia has been an embarrassment, a festering wound to the honour of my family. Our rivals have mocked us, called us impotent and worse. Yet, not even the king would move against the citadel while the Priestesses of Eor claimed sanctuary there and ownership of the surrounding mountains. They are all that stands in the way of its destruction. The collection of rogues and pirates behind those walls are not an army, most of them have probably fled already.” He drained the goblet again and refilled it one more time.