by A. C. Salter
“There you are,” Edvin sang as he sauntered through the rich chamber, Prince Rybal accompanying him. They joined him on the balcony, leaning against the rail and gazed out.
“You’re beginning to become a recluse,” Prince Rybal chuckled as he stared up into the night. “We rarely see you at dinner and you have yet to turn up to any formal royal engagements. You are a Prince of Farro now.”
Dylap shrugged, wanting to be left alone. “How’s your sister?” he asked, attempting to change the subject.
“You mean your wife, dear brother-in-law,” Rybal joked. “She’s as depressing as you. Which isn’t a good thing and now my father has taken an interest in you both, it won’t be long before the two of you will be demanded to attend engagements and indeed to spend time together.”
Shaking his head, Dylap breathed in the night and glanced at the Prince and Edvin, both smiling, and he noticed that Edvin’s hand was intertwined within Rybal’s.
“That’s right,” Edvin admitted, his face taking on a radiance that Dylap hadn’t noticed before. “We are an item. The King found out not long after the split-wings were chased off. He’s not happy with the situation, but has given us his blessing.”
Dylap had often wondered why the Prince had not yet taken a bride. Now he knew.
“Which means, I’m afraid,” Rybal added, “that he will seek to have an heir for the throne from his daughter.”
The words seemed odd at first, he was unable to piece what was being said until realisation came sinking into his gut.
“Sorry,” the Prince continued. “Maybe after time you will grow fond of each other. If not, well – worse marriages have been arranged.”
I don’t love her, he wanted to scream, I want to be with somebody else. The fairy that had been at the forefront of his mind since he had first met her.
Sighing deeply, Edvin offered him a sad smile. “She’s doing well,” he offered. “Elaya, she helps Jambilee in the Taming Tree most days. Ebbin is a good friend to her and Master Sabesto has given her your old chamber.”
Dylap felt a little comfort in that. He’d spent some nights gliding above the canopy with Crayl, hoping to see her, thinking that maybe she was somewhere below watching him.
Maybe this was for the best? If she was happy in the Aviary, then he must make a go of it at the Palace. It didn’t mean he had to like it. Dewella had lived with sorrow for the last thousand years, she at least knew how he was feeling.
He sucked air through his teeth, bit his lip and then climbed up onto the balustrade, arms held out either side for balance. The void opened out below. The trunk of the tree disappearing into the dark canopy.
“What are you doing?” Rybal asked, looking worried.
Dylap put his back to the drop and offered his brother-in-law another shrug. “I’m sorry,” he said, raising his spines and feeling the crackling energy pulsing along them, lighting up the faces of both the Prince and his lover. “I need to be alone.”
He leant back and allowed gravity to pull him from the balcony. His lightning wings spreading out to gather the air as he spun around to land on Crayl’s back.
Where shall we go, brother? the falcon asked, sleek black feathers reflecting the moon and the stars.
North, we’ve a goblin to visit and punishment to mete out.
THE END
Acknowledgements
First of all, I would like to thank Paul Manning for the design and creation of the front cover. He has a wealth of knowledge and helped guide me in the right direction. A true friend with an awesome abilty for creating the artwork.
Thanks also to my editor, Elizabeth Watkins (the Typo sniper), for having a keen eye and helping to spot the typos which had somehow slipped through.
To Benn Guthrie, for reading each raw chapter as I wrote it and giving me feed back.
To my children who gave me the inspiration, and my loving wife (a Moonflower fairy) who had great ideas of her own and has kept me going on her home cooking.
And finally to the reader, for taking the time to read Dylap.
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Preview of
Winters End
1
Figit
Peter was cold. Like the relentless snow that clung to the frozen ground, like the harsh wind that tore through the forest brushing ice from the branches to seep through his furs. Bitter like the air that caressed his cheeks, raw, numbing, aching and unforgiving – merciless, sometimes even beautiful - but always cold; that was the North.
Glancing up through the canopy of ferns, he caught a glimpse of the moon, brief and fleeting before it past from view. He was heading in the right direction at least. Trudging through the brush, heart hammering like a mason’s mallet. Thumping harder due to the callous night, the hard terrain that stole his balance at every pace, the fact he was alone, but mostly from the fear he’d end up dead from what lay beyond the next rise. He’d never been a brave man, yet had buried plenty. So many after the final battle, the ground saturated with the dead, that it was easier to place rocks and mud over corpses than dig beneath. Heroes the lot of them, all deserving more, all worthier than himself. But that was what brave got you – an early death and a shallow grave.
The smell of wood smoke reached him before he saw the flames rising from a small camp, its glow revealing a pack horse tethered to a tree, and the shapes of three men slouched around the fire. Another smaller figure lay curled at the base of a fern, shrouded within a cloak with only gloved hands showing, the wrists bound together with rope. Beyond the camp, a frozen expanse extended out towards the mountains and a glittering sky.
Peter breathed deeply, flexing his neck before fixing a smile upon his lips as he picked a gap between the rocks. He tried to keep the smile as he lost his footing and stumbled into the camp, his arms wind milling to keep upright. His attempt at a friendly entrance was lost the moment he fell into the lap of a Northman.
“What in Odin’s name?” the huge Viking growled as he shoved Peter to the ground. He rose to an impressive height, reaching for a long-shafted axe that was resting by his shield, teeth baring through a shaggy beard.
“Sorry,” Peter blurted, as he clambered to his feet and backed away. He held his hands before him, submissively. “I’m unharmed, please.” The Viking took a stride closer, axe held high, jaw muscles clenching, and Peter’s bowls turned to water.
“Who are you and what do you want?” asked another man as he rose from beside the fire. From his arctic clothes, fake fur around the hood and sleeves, and his Norwegian accent, Peter guessed he was an Earth-born. The fact made stronger by the huge shotgun that he levelled at him.
Peter raised his hands and tried not to stare down the twin barrels. “I’m lost, I’ve been trapesing around all night getting turned all sorts of ways and losing my bearing,” he admitted offering the pair a timid shrug. “Embarrassing I know, but I saw your fire and thought, thank god - I’m not alone.”
There was another Viking sitting cross-legged by the flames, running a sharpening stone along the blade of a well-used sword, making a snick-snick sound from the steel. He glanced up to watch the exchange, hard face full of harder scars, before putting his head back down to continue his work. Snick-snick-snick.
The cloaked figure slowly sat up, leaning against the tree it was tied to and drew its knees up to its chest. From the size, it was either a small child or one of the smaller races that belonged to the old world of Thea. But like everything from the old worlds, it was made to coexist in this new Ethea. From beneath its hood, two piercing blue orbs stared out of the darkness.
The man with the gun grinned as he pulled the hammers back on both barrels. “You thought wrong,” he said, nodding back the way Peter had come. “You’re going to leave as soon as you’ve emptied your pockets.”
Tapping down his furs to show that he had none, Peter shook his head
. “I don’t have anything. See how foolish I’ve been? I don’t even have a compass.”
“Lier,” the Viking snarled. “Nobody is such a fool to come this far north without a weapon. This is a trick. Jack, shoot him.”
“Don’t do that,” Peter pleaded. “Please. All I want is to share your fire. Is that too much to ask, Jack?” He tried to thicken his words with sweetness, but realised his mistake when the shotgun was rammed into his belly.
“I’m not the sharing kind. But I’ll gladly take your coat and boots,” Jack replied. “Those at least I can sell.”
The thought of ambling through the snow bare foot sent a chill through Peter’s core. “I’ll freeze to death,” he stammered through chattering teeth. He glanced to the Viking that was sharpening his sword, seeking a little compassion, but the Northman simply carried on sharpening his blade, the incessant scraping of stone on metal. Snick – snick, it was playing on his nerves.
“I’ll give you my coat, but please, let me stay by your fire tonight. And not just for the warmth. There’s something out there. Something big.”
Jack glanced at the tall Viking who stared out into the wilderness for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t see anything.”
“I swear, right before I found you, I saw a wolf,” Peter said, opening his arms wide. “It was huge.”
“This is the North,” Jack said, waving his gun towards Peter’s boots. “There’s plenty of wolves. It’s the mountain ogres you’ve got to watch for.” This brought a laugh from the axe wielding Viking. “See Ernsk, there,” Jack continued, nodding towards the sword sharpening man on the floor. “He’s all kinds of nasty, been in every bloody battle that’s worth spit up here. Only last spring, he fought alongside the mighty Ragna, son of Black Bowen himself. He led the charge across an icy field full of demons, slaughtering thousands of em, before he killed the god, Hades. The battle was legendary, full of glory and songs…you must have heard about it.”
Heard, seen, experienced the battle in all its filth. But there was no ice, no glory and definitely, no songs. Only mud, churned black with blood and a wealth of pain. Peter was there, front and centre of the vanguard. The nightmares still plagued him. Still had him waking in sweat.
“No,” he lied, eyeing Ernsk again, wondering if he really was there. “But this wolf was different. It was bigger than me, maybe eight feet tall and walked like a man.” That got his attention. Ernsk paused his ritual like sharpening to glare up. “And he was wearing armour. Not like an Imperial guard, this suit was shaped like a wolf and had a snarling helm. It frightened the life out of me.” Peter shivered as he told the tale, hugging himself as he stared longingly at the fire.
Ernsk looked to the other Viking and shared a knowing expression, while the prisoner remained quiet, glaring through the dark hood.
“And when it spoke, its voice sounded like two millstones grinding together. He told me his name. Gritgrime, no, Wolfground – maybe…”
Ernst cleared his voice. “Grimwolf,” he said, having to work spit around his mouth.
Peter puffed his cheeks out before blowing air through his teeth. “Grimwolf, yes that was it. Said he was tracking some bounty hunters that had something he wanted.”
“That so?” Jack said, his finger twitching over the trigger, the stock sliding tighter into his shoulder.
“Yes. Said, there was three of them,” Peter carried on, eyeing each of the men, “An Earth-born and two Vikings.”
“That so?”
Peter nodded. “Said that if I stumble upon them before he did, to tell them to leave the girl and run.”
Jack barked out a laugh that wasn’t shared with his friends. The Vikings spun about to cast a wider glance around the forest, worry working creases into their brows. The pack horse suddenly stamped a hoof and snorted steam through wide nostrils, making the pair jump.
“I’m not afraid of this Grimwolf. Isn’t anything that my twelve-bore won’t bring down. Ernst, what are you doing?”
Peter watched on as the Northman crept towards the prisoner, blade raised before him, his face as white as the snow at his feet.
“I’m cutting her loose,” he answered. “I’ll not be fighting Grimwolf.”
“Nor me,” agreed the other Viking as he threw a blanket over the horse and began to tie a sack to the saddle. “Killing, stealing, kidnapping – these things I’ll do willingly. But I didn’t sign up for suicide. I won’t be standing against Grimwolf.”
Jack glowered at his men as he slowly swung the shotgun around. “Cut her bonds and I’ll shoot you dead. You know I’ll do it. Stop being cowards, if this wolf is real, then it’s only a man in armour.”
Ernst shook his head as he gripped the rope that bound the prisoner’s wrists. “You’re wrong. Grimwolf is a nightmare. A demon sent from hell itself. He’s no more man than the wind.”
“Aye, if you were a Viking you would know that,” agreed the other.
Jack spat into the snow, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the gun tighter. “Superstitious cowards the pair of you. There’s no truth in it. Just lies spun by this idiot,” he said, elbow briefly flicking towards Peter. “Now leave the girl be, settle down for the night and I’ll give you both an extra ten percent once we reach Oslo.”
“Ernsk, it isn’t worth it,” argued the tall Viking, strapping his shield to the horse. “You were at the battle with Ragna last year, you saw how Grimwolf fought, how he cut through the centre of those demons as if he was Death himself.”
Ernsk lowered his sword, gaze catching the fire light as he ran the sums around his head. “Split the bounty three ways equally and it’s a deal,” he said, scowling.
“Or I split you three ways,” came a gravelly voice from the treeline. It was quiet, almost a whisper but carried with the weight and finality of a coffin lid.
Ernsk dropped his sword. It clattered onto the frozen ground, jaw dropping open as he rose. His companion paused, arms stretched over the saddle stiffening as he slowly turned his head.
“Grimwolf,” he said, breath rising in a white cloud, eyes forming large round circles.
From between two ferns stepped a monster, snarling teeth catching the fire light, lobster gauntlets in the shape of claws flexing, steel torso twisting with each step, the snow crunching beneath heavily clawed boots and leaving wolf prints. Wide shoulders swung as he stalked closer, a crimson cloak billowing from the wind that picked up and howled around them.
Peter yelped and ducked below Jack’s shotgun as the Norwegian swung about. “That’s him,” he said, stealing behind Jack’s back and out of the gun’s range. “That’s the wolf I was talking about. Please, do something.”
Jack’s shoulders bunched up as he lowered his face to the stock. “It’s just a man in a suit,” he said, his words sounding unsure. “Stop right there or I’ll put a hole in you.”
The monster came on, his strides twice that of an average human, glower burning through his eternal snarl.
“Shoot him Jack,” Ernsk hissed. Peter stole a glance behind him and saw that the tough demeaner of the scarred Viking had collapsed to reveal the shaking coward beneath. “Do it.”
Jack rocked back, the thunderous boom of the shotgun echoing around the mountains as the blast briefly lit up the night.
The shot struck the wolf dead centre of the chest, the force throwing him back where he landed hard on the ground, snow bouncing up from the impact before settling on the armour.
Nobody moved, silence replacing the echoes as they faded away, even the wind calming as if to pay respect to the fallen giant.
“See, just a man in a suit.” Jack boasted as he regained his composure. “Isn’t nothing my gun can’t bring down.”
Ernsk and the other Viking exchanged a look, nervous glances going from their leader to the man on the ground.
“Finish him,” the tall Viking said as he gathered his spear. “That armour will be worth a kingdom.”
Ernsk barked out a laugh. “A kingdom, yes. But the so
ngs alone. The glory. We killed the mighty Grimwolf.”
Peter remained quiet as the three bounty hunters approached the prone monster in the snow. The only movement from the fallen beast came from his cloak as the wind began to take up its howling once again and tease the crimson edges.
Jack edged closer and nudged Grimwolf’s leg, the foot which was pointing to the stars wobbled before becoming still. The tall Viking prodded the chest with his spear and then when nothing happened, raked the blade down the god-created breast plate, eliciting a screech from the metal.
“Dead,” Ernsk said. “Doesn’t look so mythical now. Best to put another shot in his head to be sure, though. But don’t ruin that helm.”
Peter held his breath, watching in morbid curiosity as Jack placed the barrel of his shotgun against the snarling helm, his own grin almost wolf like as he squeezed the trigger.
Before the hammer fell, a large gauntleted fist gripped around the barrel and crushed the pipe, stifling the shot. The gun exploded, flames blasting from the rear with the strength to throw Jack onto his back. He landed hard, smoke rising from the burnt jacket which now sported a scorched hole. Raising his head, he watched in horror as Grimwolf began to rise.