The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  And yet, I’m here. Might as well make the best of it, and rescue Father.

  As if sneaking undetected into dungeons in a weird fugue state wasn't miraculous enough. Getting back out with the aging Nicholas was pushing the boundaries of believability. Having no clue how he had been able to get inside, he wasn’t certain he could pull it off, though he sure as heck was willing to try.

  He turned his attention back to the immediate business on hand, and stole another quick glance around the corner; he spied the two guards lounging at a long oak table. Empty mugs and portions of mutton crowded its surface. They could hardly stand up; much less guard an entire cell block.

  Good.

  Krin could use a little fortuitous luck at the moment, and inebriation was one of the very best thing he could have hoped for.

  “You still hungry?”

  The second guard, a pudgy, slug-shaped beast of man bearing the complexion of a citizen of Hispania, reeled his head slightly to the left, considering the answer. Then he shivered. “I could go for some more wine, I think. And bring me a blanket while yer at it. It’s turned blasted frigid in here all of a sudden.”

  The first guard, a true Roman by his strong aquiline nose and olive complexion—He must have done something really bad to land a stint as a Myran prison guard, Krin thought—grunted and stood unevenly from his chair. His knees nearly buckled from the shock of being used so abruptly after so many mugs of fortified wine.

  “Al-r-right then,” the first slurred, a wisp of cold air curled in front of his face with every syllable. “B-be back with some more in a few minutes.”

  Krin’s sharp eyes watched the Roman stumbled away to the cellar for more refreshments. Krin stood breathless. Indecision wormed into his thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. With Alexandrius searching for him too, he was walking right into the very den of vipers. He wouldn’t do Nicholas any good if he was imprisoned, as well.

  Still, the thought of the old man spending even another minute in the nightmarish conditions of the dungeon were almost too much for Krin to imagine. Though Nicholas was robust and full of life, he still was very advanced in years. Surely his health couldn’t handle an extended stay in such an environment. He would have to try to free his father and throw caution to the four winds.

  Looking around for ideas, Krin’s focus narrowed on the guard’s bobbing head. The Spaniard struggled valiantly to keep his eyes open. Maybe I’ll get a chance if I wait… just…long…enough.

  As if on cue, the Spaniard’s head crashed down with a thud onto the table. His forehead careened against a bronze mug; its dark red contents cascaded over the table’s side, and onto the stone floor, creating a bitter-sweet smelling pool at the man’s feet.

  Ever the opportunist, Krin darted from the shadows into the dimly-lit hallway, and rummaged through the intoxicated guard’s pockets for keys. After two tries, his deft fingers latched onto a metal ring and quickly withdrew it. Stifling a gasp of triumph, he hefted the keys in his hand, and patted the Spaniard on the head in thanks. Turning away, Krin clutched the keys to his chest to prevent the metal from clanking, and scoured the cell block in search of Nicholas. It didn’t take long. All he had to do was listen for the sounds of raucous merry-making echoing through the narrow hall.

  With the clinking of the key in the lock, the heavy iron door creaked open to reveal Nicholas pacing the floors just as the Roman had described. As usual, he was talking to himself and laughing boisterously.

  How many times had Krin seen the man doing the same thing back home? It had been an incessant source of embarrassment for him ever since Nicholas had adopted him. How else was the youth supposed to feel? The famed bishop, who had been lauded for punching the heretic Arias in the face during the Nicaean Council, was given to outbursts of madness—delusions of the saddest sort—at any given moment. Oddly, despite Krin’s own mortification over the bishop’s antics, it honestly didn’t seem to change the way the people felt about him—mad as he might be. His congregation still regarded him as their beloved pastor, and loved him more than anyone had a right. He was, after all, the layman who God had specifically chosen for the See of Myra. He could do no wrong in their eyes. He had become the very image of justice, kindness, and godliness to the people of Asia, if not the entire Roman world.

  Krin, however, could not forgive him these eccentricities. He hated seeing the man like this. The aging bishop had once explained it all to him. Krin, of course, hadn’t believed a word of it. Nicholas claimed he could talk directly with God. The most preposterous thing was, that God supposedly answered—audibly—which would typically be something rather witty or clever that sent Nicholas into bouts of uncontrollable mirth. Krin had always thought the notion completely ludicrous, and sometimes became enraged at the very mention of these divine conversations. The bishop, wisely, learned to refrain from sharing the contents with his son, which suited Krin just fine.

  Krin’s recollections were cut short when he realized that Nicholas’s ranting had ceased, and the cell now echoed with silence. He looked up to see the kindly old man staring at him in wonder. His enormous brown eyes seemed to swivel in different directions as if trying to focus in the dismal light. Suddenly, a great smile spread from ear to ear.

  “Had another one of your spells, did you, my boy?”

  At that question, a lump swelled in Krin’s throat. He had worked so hard to keep his strange fits from being known by anyone…especially Nicholas. But looking at the old man now, he suddenly didn’t care about any of that. At that moment, he felt nothing but an almost compulsory need to run to the old man, and throw his arms around him. No matter how irritated he might be at his father’s unseemly behavior, he could not deny just how much he loved him.

  Not wanting to discuss his strange condition at the moment, Krin decided to ignore the question entirely. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, or why that buffoon, Alexandrius, had you arrested, but I’m here to get you out. Get your things, and let’s go before the other guard comes back!”

  Nicholas just stood there, puzzling over the odd figure of the young man standing before him. Though to many, the bishop’s look would have been inscrutable, Krin knew Nicholas well enough to follow his thought process with ease. He would reflect, for the barest of moments, the deep felt affections he had for his son. Then, his mind would turn to Krin’s peculiar features—his long, silver-white hair and neatly trimmed goatee, his angular face, honey-colored skin, and deep lavender eyes—and inevitably begin pondering the boy’s mysterious origins. From there, he would obviously turn his thoughts to…

  Krin’s predictions were dashed to pieces when Nicholas turned his gaze toward the ceiling and erupted in another howl of laughter.

  “Um, we don’t have time for this, Father,” Krin said irritably. “We need to go. Now.”

  “Nonsense, boy. I’m not going anywhere this night,” Nicholas admonished, still chuckling. “It’s not quite time yet. He’s not finished setting up the pieces.”

  Krin could do nothing but gawk at the older man standing so defiantly in the cell that reeked of urine, rotten slop the guards called food, and God only knew what else.

  Once…just once…why can’t the old man ever do things the easy way? Why does he always insist on driving me crazy? “Look. I don’t have time to argue about this. Let’s go!”

  Krin was quickly losing his patience. He didn’t have time to play Christian mystic games with Nicholas now. There would be plenty of time to discuss the ‘intricacies of communing with God’ another time. Now, the only thing on his mind was getting his father out of this dung heap before the guards sobered up, or Alexandrius arrived to torture his prize.

  Nicholas’ smile faded quickly. His thick arms crossed over his large, barrel-shaped chest as his eyes flared with a look that burned right into Krin’s soul. He knew the look well. Determination. Obstinance. A touch of pride, with just a dash of righteous anger. Nicholas was not easily provoked, but once he made a decision, it was un
wise to challenge him. The old man had never unleashed his fury on Krin personally, but he had seen its handiwork on a few poor souls who had crossed Nicholas over the years. The heretic, Arius, sprang, once more, to Krin’s mind.

  “Krin, you need to listen to me, boy.” The bishop’s face softened. “The guard is on his way up from the cellar. He’ll be here in a minute or two. We haven’t much time. So for once in your life, don’t quarrel with me, and give me your complete, and undivided attention.”

  The youth knew better than to argue. He also knew that Nicholas was right. The guard would be coming back soon. How Nicholas knew about the guard’s trip to the cellar to begin with, Krin could only guess, but he knew that the warning was sound. Besides the Roman, the Spanish guard could be heard muttering incoherently to himself. He was stirring from his sleep.

  Krin decided he would listen. He also decided that he would return to finish what he had started as soon as possible. He would free his father from these rank halls, and the Roman Empire could fall into Hades for all he cared.

  “All right,” Krin said. “What’s going on?”

  Nicholas tensed. His normally jovial demeanor had been replaced with something akin to fear—if not, outright dread.

  “What is it, Father? You’re starting to worry me.”

  With a sigh, the old man nodded. “There’s just so much I need to say,” Nicholas began, a single tear rolled down his cherubic cheek. “Just not enough time to say it. But this is the moment I’ve feared ever since bringing you home from Hibernia.”

  Krin didn’t know much about his past—his parents or his origins—but he knew well enough the island of his birth. Hibernia. Off the coast of Britannia, it was said to be populated by a strange and wild people that worshipped the earth and stars and sky. His mother had supposedly been one such person…a druid priestess of some prominence. His father was completely unknown to him. A Roman attack on his village left him an orphan and a slave. If it had not been for Nicholas’s intervention and rescue, there was no telling where he would be today.

  So the question was, what on earth could his father be so afraid to tell him about his homeland? What could be so devastating that the wise old pastor had bottled such a secret with so much dread? But if Krin thought Nicholas would answer his unspoken questions at the moment, he had sorely miscalculated. Instead, the bishop moved closer to him, placed a rough, calloused hand on his shoulder, and said, “Go back to the house. Under the floor near my writing desk you will find a letter, and a parcel. Read the note first. It will explain what you need to know for now, as well as the significance of the parcel.”

  “What? That’s it? Father, what is going on?”

  His tone suggested that he would never leave the prison alive. Like he was saying goodbye. Like he was offering up his inheritance even before the death knell struck. As if reading the younger man’s thoughts, Nicholas grinned again. His white teeth gleamed in the dingy cell.

  “Have no fear, lad. This is not the end for me,” the old man glanced up at the ceiling again as if listening to some unheard voice. “But it’s just the beginning for you. This isn’t about me. I believe Alexandrius only arrested me to get at you. I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about that!”

  Krin only stared. He didn’t know what to say. A strange cocktail of relief, concern, frustration, and impatience washed over him at his mentor’s words. Whether mad or not, Krin had to believe the old man. Nicholas would be fine. He had to be. He had no idea what he would do without the ‘old codger’. Then, a sudden thought struck him.

  “Wait a minute. Alexandrius arrested you to get to me? Why? I’ve done nothing to him.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, but my gut tells me the answer will reveal itself soon enough. Especially if you don’t do as I say and leave. Now.”

  He was about to protest—to demand a better explanation—when heavy footfalls echoed through the corridor. The Roman guard was stomping back up the stairs from the cellar, mumbling incoherently to himself. Krin’s heart raced. He was torn with indecision. Should he make good his escape while the Roman was still on the stairwell, or should he disregard Nicholas’ pleas, and carry him out of the prison on his shoulders?

  One look at Nicholas’ broad frame, and ideas of a reluctant rescue evaporated from his imagination. All right, he thought. I’ll listen to the old man for a change. I’ll leave, and go gather my wits, then return with a better plan to rescue him…whether he likes it or not!

  Of course, now that the decision to leave was made, a wholly different problem presented itself. Since Krin wasn't entirely sure how he had entered the prison, he wasn’t entirely sure how to find his way out again.

  With the returning Roman quickly closing the gap between Krin and an exit, he found his options dwindling. As a matter of fact, there was only one left. He would have to return to the guard station, and hope he could navigate the maze of corridors while conscious as easily as he did while sleepwalking.

  But he had one more thing to do before he left. Without warning, Krin wrapped his strong arms around the old man’s shoulders, and squeezed as hard as he could. Nicholas patted Krin’s back, and kissed him gently on the forehead.

  “Go. Now.” whispered Nicholas. Another tear stained his rosy cheeks.

  Krin turned, ran toward the open door, and directly into the sword-wielding arm of the Roman and his Hispanic companion. He tried to duck past both, but together, the guards created an impenetrable barricade to the door.

  “What’s all this then?” the second guard growled. Lunging at him, the Spaniard’s shaking hand clasped at Krin’s tunic. The youth ducked to avoid the man’s grip, clenched his eyes tight in a blind panic, and was suddenly gone.

  TWO

  Once the sudden rush of arctic air and wave of pseudo-inebriation dissipated, he opened his eyes only to find that he was standing just outside the prison gate on a solid patch of ice.

  What the…?

  Another blackout. And this time, he had managed to sleepwalk right past the soldiers guarding Nicholas’s cell, as well as any other Romans lurking within the prison’s dank corridors until he made it outside.

  Sure. That’s possible… And maybe they’ll make me the next Emperor of Rome too.

  And then there was also the ice. Again. Always ice and frost. No, something far beyond merely sleepwalking in and out of prisons and other places was happening to him. But he had no time to ponder any of the alternatives, because this particular spell had landed him right in the middle of a patrol of Roman soldiers marching toward the prison for the evening shift.

  Petrified by his current predicament, Krin could do little more than gawk at the soldiers while they stared awkwardly back. He could only imagine what was going through their minds at that moment. It is not every day that the fugitive that one has been tasked with finding, magically appears out of nowhere, and nose to nose with them at that.

  He watched in horror as the first glimmer of recognition suddenly blossomed across their faces. A soldier opened his mouth, about to shout the alarm to his companions, about the same second that Krin finally regained control of his legs, and shot forward. His arms and legs spinning wildly to keep from slipping on the sheet of ice beneath his feet, he ducked past two of the soldiers’ paralyzed forms, and made his way at a full sprint to the heart of the city.

  In unison, his pursuers shouted for him to stop, drawing attention from three more guards approaching the prison gates. Krin risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see the soldiers slipping and sliding on the ice before finding their footing to give chase. The newcomers joined the pursuit.

  “Perfect,” Krin grumbled as he ran. “Just absolutely perfect.”

  The patrol bore down on Krin with speed that he hadn’t thought possible given their full battle dress.

  Because the hour was late, the streets were practically deserted, though Krin wasn’t certain whether this was a good thing or bad. Had it been daytime, the streets would have been teemin
g with citizens heading to the market district, or pilgrims making their way to either Nicholas’s church, or the temple of Artemis. There would have been a veritable wall of humanity he could have used as camouflage, or at least a barrier to slow the soldiers’ pursuit. At the same time, all it would have taken was one well-meaning Lycian to grab Krin while he was hiding, and it would be all over. In the end, he decided it was probably best the crowds had dispersed, and were nice and comfortable in their own homes.

  Besides, no one knew the streets of Myra like Krin, and he intended to use that knowledge to its full advantage.

  Approaching a set of stone steps leading down into the town square, Krin scooped up a wicker basket left from the day’s market, tossed it to the ground in front of him, and jumped onto it at the edge of the stairs. Gravity took hold, pulling the basket—with him riding it like a stone skipping across a lake—down the steps in one fluid motion, granting him even more distance from the guards. Once on level ground, he looked back to see the soldiers braking off from one another, and running around opposite sides of the square in hopes of flanking him.

  “You fellas are gonna have to do better than that!” he shouted, ducking beneath the canvass flaps of a merchant’s tent. The old merchant bolted up from his straw bed at the sudden intrusion, but Krin ignored his curses, running out the back, and toward the Myran business district. A few more zigs and zags, and within a matter of minutes, he was well out of sight of his pursuers. Darting around a corner, and into a narrow alley, Krin risked glancing around his cover, and waited two heartbeats. When the soldiers didn’t careen into view, he let out a quick breath, looked up at the two walls flanking him, and leapt into the air. With one fluid, well-practiced motion, he kicked off the northern wall with his right foot, and bounded toward the one to the south. His nimble fingers scrambled up the face of the wall a few inches until they found purchase on the ledge above, then he hauled himself up onto the flat, hatched roof.