The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  THE LEGEND OF THE WINTERKING:

  THE CROWN OF NANDUR

  J. Kent Holloway

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2014 by J. Kent Holloway

  Cover art © 2014 by Christian Guldager

  Map of Thana Pel © by Michael Karpovage

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Tailypo Press

  4420 Carter Road #6

  Saint Augustine, Florida 32086

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  PART II

  PART III

  Author’s Note

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  2 B.C.

  Judea, just outside the walls of Bethlehem

  Even in the scalding sunlight of the Judean afternoon, the blindingly bright star was still visible. Tabelenon, the Magus Prime of the Order of the Magi, wiped the sweat from his eyes as he glanced up at the strange apparition in the sky.

  How long had it blazed the heavens with its radiance? The Magi had already been studying it for months, trying to deduce its meaning; to decipher its message, when Reganus had finally remembered the Hebrew prophecies.

  After many more months of searching and traveling by caravan, Tabelenon and the remaining twenty-one members of the Order, had arrived three days before to the town whose name means “House of Bread” in the native tongue. Since their arrival, they had scoured the small hamlet in search of a single child; a very special child who was destined to change the world.

  Tabelenon glanced around at the cluster of pilgrims marching along with him toward the town gates, where his scouts would rendezvous with them, hopefully with good news. Forty magi, their wives, children, servants, and pack animals had begun the journey nearly a year ago. They had all put their faith—as well as their very lives—in his hands. Some had turned away mid-journey. Some had simply succumbed to dehydration, disease, and old age. But those who had made it this far beamed with a kind of hopeful radiance that matched the star above.

  He turned his attention to his twelve-year old son, Calibus, walking beside him; so close they were practically indistinguishable from a distance. The boy, too, was staring into their fellow travelers, but unlike Tabelenon, his wide eyes expressed a mixture of both confusion and wonder—and were focused on a single individual among the crowd.

  “Stop staring, son. It is impolite.”

  The boy didn’t seem hear him, and continued to stare at the rather large, muscular man about ten paces away. The man, of blue-dyed skin, and tattooed with a strange motif of ivy, vines, and tree branches, had a thick mane of hair and beard of silver-white. His armor and attire were so completely alien to anything Calibus had ever seen before, and he carried himself with the air of a man of royal blood, despite his humble nature.

  Tabelenon understood his son’s fascination. He himself had the same reaction when he had first met the warrior a week before, when crossing the Jordan River. Since then, every evening, the Magi Council had sat in rapt attention while the stranger regaled them around the campfire with wondrous tales. The tales of his life. Tales of things that were, are, and will be.

  “Son!” Tabelenon’s tone was sharp, yet quiet. Calibus jerked to attention at the reprimand.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” the boy said. “But there is just something about him…I cannot quite put my finger on it.”

  The Magus Prime nodded serenely at this. “Explain.”

  Calibus thought about it for a moment. “Well, for starters, he appears to be a great warrior. The lines on his face show the many hard years he has lived, and that scar across his throat is testament of battles won, or perhaps lost.”

  “Go on.” Tabelenon enjoyed conversations like this with his son—opportunities to train him in the art of observation, deduction, and discernment. The skill of sizing up an individual for what they were, and not what they appeared to be. If he left any legacy with his children at all, he wanted it to be an instilled desire to place true value on an individual for the person they were on the inside, and not on outward appearance.

  “Well,” the boy continued, “his eyes disturb me more than anything.”

  “His eyes? You mean the strange lavender hue they have?”

  “Well, there is that…but no. It's because, well, he seems hard, and fierce, yet one look in his eyes, and I feel almost overwhelmed with a sense of safety. It is as if no harm will ever befall me as long he is near.” Calibus looked at the stranger again, who seemed to have taken no notice of their conversation, even though he was well within earshot. “But even stranger, just being in the man’s presence fills my heart with…with…”

  “With?” Tabelenon knew precisely what was next.

  “With an incredible sense of joy.”

  Tabelenon beamed. “And this bothers you?”

  “No, not exactly. I just cannot understand how he can be so many things at once. Who is this man? This warrior who looks as though he could defeat Nimrod himself, yet fills my heart with immeasurable happiness?”

  The Magus Prime gazed down at his son, pride threatening to burst from his chest. “You have spoken wisely. There is so much more to the man than meets your eyes. More than you can even possibly begin to fathom.”

  Altemenes, the youngest, and most impertinent of the Order trotted up to Tabelenon. He opened his mouth to interrupt, but was instantly silenced by one wilting look from the Magus Prime

  “As for that sense of safety, and security, you mentioned, Calibus.” He nodded to the silver-bearded warrior. “There’s good reason for that. He’s been tasked by the Creator with a very special purpose in life…he is the protector of children. Everywhere.”

  Calibus’ eyes lit up at the declaration, then he turned to look at the stranger, who was now looking back with a knowing smile across his rugged face. He shot the boy a quick wink, grinned even broader, and quickened his pace.

  After a second, Calibus spoke. “Is that why he’s traveling with us? To protect the Child?”

  Tabelenon laughed. “Not at all. The Child needs no protection from any human. He is well taken care of by the Hosts of Heaven. No, the stranger is here simply because he was called to be here. He comes to the Child in a time of great turmoil in his own life, so that his sense of purpose can be renewed.”

  Altemenes stepped forward again; the look on his face evident that he wished to speak. But with a simple gesture, Tabelenon silenced him again. The young magus needed to learn more patience. It is good for him to wait.

  “I think I would like to get to know the man better,” Calibus said, after several moments. “I bet he has great stories to tell.”

  “Oh, he does. And I promise you, one day, you will know him very well. Very well indeed. But not now. Our paths will soon diverge, but you will meet him again…and in the most unexpected way.” He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, and turned to Altemenes. “Now, we’ve kept my young student waiting long enough. What is it, brother?”

  Visibly relieved at finally being given permission to speak, the exasperated young magus threw up his hands, and spoke. “Thank you, Magus Prime. I was merely wondering how much longer we planned to pursue our search. We have turned every stone in this city. The Child and his family are simply not here.”

 
; Tabelenon frowned at his protégé. He was going to have to discuss his pupil’s attitude with the others. The constant complaints and dissension throughout the journey—no doubt a product of the zealot Zelquith-Tor’s influence—had threatened to shatter the morale of his humble caravan.

  “We will continue to search until the star moves on,” said the leader of the Magi. “It has led us to this point. It will continue to do so.”

  Tabelenon knew the sun would set soon, but darkness would not come. The star would continue to blaze over the Judean town of Bethlehem. The star that had led them all the way from Babylon to this very spot. His mind still had trouble grasping the significance of it all.

  As he gazed up into the sky, he wondered at what the prophecies meant. The tiny, seemingly insignificant city was to be the birthing place for the one the Hebrews called Messiah. He was to be a great and glorious king whose reign would last forever and ever. He pulled his mind from his reverie, and was just about to add a lesson of faith to Altemenes’ reprimand, when he was interrupted by the sound of his name being shouted from across the thoroughfare.

  “Tabelenon! Tabelenon!”

  The Magus Prime looked up, and saw Balhazeter running at full speed from the city gates. His eyes wide with panic. Or was it joy?

  He noticed that the silver-haired stranger had suddenly taken an interest in the outburst as well.

  “What is it, Balhazeter?”

  Bending over, his hands on his waist to catch his breath, the rather rotund magus wheezed. “I’ve found Him. I’ve found the Child!”

  PART I

  BLEAK MIDWINTER

  ONE

  City Prison

  Myra, Province of Lycia

  A.D. 331

  Like so many times before, Krin blinked and inexplicably, he was somewhere else. As usual, when experiencing this phenomenon, the youth’s head spun like a child’s top—wibbling and wobbling uncontrollably as he attempted to regain his equilibrium. His odd lavender-hued eyes struggled to adjust to the dank, alien environment in which he suddenly found himself. The echo of water dripping somewhere in the distance was the first thing he noticed. Then, there was the smell—like the rotted remains of a ten-day-old carcass, resting in the desert sun, after marinating in human misery. Finally, he took in the shadow-blanketed hallway, looking right and then left, to catch his bearings. The walls, normally covered in a rich coat of algae, now glistened with the crystalline splendor of frost and ice. Krin recognized the telltale chill as another invariable byproduct of his little ‘blackouts’, though he had no idea why it occurred. The frost effect twinkled within the weak ensconced torchlight every few feet down a seemingly endless corridor.

  The prison... He was still dazed by his sudden displacement, but quickly beginning to recognize the place. He had been there once before, albeit briefly, after a small mishap with an Alexandrian fabric merchant with no sense of humor. …where they’ve taken Nicholas.

  But how was that possible? Last he remembered, General Alexandrius' men were carting Nicholas away from his church. Krin had been hiding in the potter's doorway across the street, watching with horror as they clamped shackles on his adoptive father's wrists and ankles like some common thief. Then, just as unexpected as all the other blackouts he had had in the last few years, Krin found himself here, surrounded by frost and chilled to the bone.

  “The old codger’s crazy as a loon!” Krin heard a gruff voice say from somewhere down the corridor. Filing his inexplicable displacement away to ponder later, he hugged tight to the shadows, and crept toward the voice. A few stealthy steps later, he slid up to a corner of the hallway leading into a small guard station.

  “What exactly is a loon, anyway?” said a second voice. A quick peak around the corner revealed two guards enjoying their evening meal. From the looks of it, both had already had their fair share of wine and were nearly three sheets to the wind.

  “I-I dunno. A bird, I guessh,” burped the first guard.

  “Have you ev…ever seen a loon?”

  “Well, no…but…”

  “Then, how do you know…how do you kn-know they’re crazy?” The second guard scratched his head. “I’ve always wondered that about that expression. If no one’s ever seen a loon, how do they know they’re crazy?”

  “They just are,” the first guard said indignantly. “Everyone knows that.”

  “But I mean…”

  “Look. Enough about the loon,” the first growled. “The old man’s just nuts, okay? Crazy as they come.”

  The second thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I’ll agree with that. Ever since the General hauled him in here, all he’s done is pace around his cell, and talk to thin air. Don’t even get me started on that crazy laughin’ he’s always doin’. If ya ask me, the old man doesn’t do much to settle my nerves.”

  Krin winced at the soldier’s scathing critique of his beloved mentor. Taking a deep breath, he reigned in his ever-frustrated temper, and continued to listen. He had heard all this before, of course. He had heard it practically his entire life for that matter. Whenever anyone outside of the church talked about Nicholas, it was always the same thing. He was a certifiable madman, people said. He was out of his mind.

  Were these accusations the reason General Alexandrius had arrested the old bishop?

  No, that doesn’t make sense, Krin thought. They’re after me too, and I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life; being mad isn’t one of them.

  So the question remained…what was going on? Why had a man with as much political clout as the Bishop of Myra been placed under arrest? And why was nearly every soldier in the city even now searching for the bishop’s adopted son? Krin’s mind drifted back to how it all began, trying to decipher the puzzle that had been vexing him since earlier that afternoon.

  The day had started out picture perfect. At least, as perfect as Krin could hope for anyway. The seventeen-year-old orphan from the distant isle of Hibernia had awakened to a crisp, September morning, and had immediately readied himself for a day of fun and adventure with his best friend, Justin. The radiant sunshine, the symphony of kingfishers nesting in the crook of Krin’s third-story bedroom window, and the blissfully cool breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean all promised to accommodate the gloriously devious plans he had concocted for the day. And yes, the day had promised to be one for the record books. It was to be The Day. The day Krin finally reaped vengeance on the old baker, Turelmos, for all the grief he had given him over the last fifteen years. The old man had never liked him. Never trusted him. Yet the mistrust had nothing to do with Krin’s proclivity toward pranks or ‘shenanigans’, as Nicholas called it.

  No, Turelmos despised Krin for other, deeper reasons. He had often called the youth a ‘monster’ or a ‘devil’; even going so far as to tell others that Krin’s unnaturally silver hair was abomination before God. His irises, so flecked with purple, they seemed to be the color of the emperor’s robes, were considered to be signs of devilry and witchcraft. And so, believing himself doing the work of the Lord, he had tormented the boy since the day Nicholas had brought him home.

  Finally the day for Krin to pay the old man back for all that grief had come. Which meant, it was the day he would play the greatest prank ever devised by anyone—mortal or demigod—in the Roman Province of Lycia; possibly even the world!

  So where had it all gone so horribly wrong?

  Obviously, with Alexandrius. His men had been lying in wait when he had snuck into the baker’s kitchen. How they knew he would be there, he could not divine.

  His best friend, Justin, had already done his part by distracting the old coot Turelmos. All Krin had to do was slip in through the back delivery door. He was just about to add a pinch of the wartstool extract into a batch of kneaded dough when the soldiers had burst into the room with swords drawn.

  Krin had bolted like a jack rabbit. Ran past a breathless, overweight soldier, slid between the legs of another, and dashed out the door. Alexand
rius’ goons had given chase, of course, but Krin knew the streets of Myra far better than any of the foreign soldiers sent by Rome. Within minutes, he was safely out of sight, and making his way to the only place he knew he would be safe. Nicholas’s church. And sanctuary.

  However, once he reached the potter’s shop across the street from the church, he knew there would be no respite. Things went from bad to worse the moment he saw the bishop being led away in chains. And, as if things just couldn’t get any worse, out of despair, he had just closed his eyes for a second, and the next thing he knew, he was in the heart of enemy territory. Inside the Roman proconsul’s personal prison—a place reserved for those who’ve committed the worst of political crimes against Constantine…or his immediate subordinates such as the General.

  The thought brought him back to his present precarious situation. So, what now? Find Nicholas? To Krin, it felt like only seconds since blinking, and finding himself within the prison walls. Not nearly enough time to transport the old man across town to the prison. But the guards had distinctly been talking about Nicholas, so that meant he was already confined within one of the cells. How much time has passed since I blacked out?

  Krin’s frown deepened as glanced around the corner of the cell block walls for another look, before considering the possibilities.

  Somehow, he had made it to the prison without being seen, and snuck inside. Personally, he knew of at least two different means of ingress that might have worked. Then, cloaked within the shadows, he must have managed to unconsciously creep unmolested through the Roman prison. And, to top it all off, considering the guards’ current conversation about Nicholas, he had managed to even wander into the row of cells in which they had imprisoned the old man.

  Even to Krin’s overactive imagination, such an adventure seemed highly unlikely.