The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  He ignored the multitudinous questions bombarding his thoughts, and turned his focus to his current mission. The longer he dawdled, the greater the chance of discovery. He turned around to begin his search of Nicholas’ study, but turned too quickly. His foot slid across the iced-over floor, and shot out like a blow dart from under him. He flew into the air, and fell backward into the rack housed Nicholas' various glass test tubes and other scientific apparatuses. The rack dislodged from the wall, spilling its contents onto the floor. Glass and clay bottles shattered with an angry crash that would have been audible even from outside.

  The rumble of arguing downstairs stopped as abruptly as the rack had crashed. Krin held his breath, praying that the guards’ ire for one another would be stronger than any sense of duty, or curiosity. No sound came from below. Five seconds. Ten seconds passed. Krin’s heart rate double. He bit anxiously down on his lip. Heavy boots pounding up the wooden staircase killed any remaining hope he had of escaping detection. The guards had indeed heard the ruckus. Curiosity outweighed animosity. With just four hallway doors between the stairwell landing and the study, he only had a few seconds at best. Certainly no time to attempt a long, arduous climb back up the ventilation flue.

  He could hear Nicolas' words ringing in his ears. So, Krin, my lad, best make do with the hand you were dealt then. Looking around the study, he frantically searched for a place to conceal himself. The room was austere. The stone walls had been white washed, making the colorful mosaic tiles on the floor—a scene depicting Moses parting the Red Sea—more prominent. It was the only decoration in the study; the rest of the room designed for the simple needs of an ascetic academic: a simple oak writing desk, a three-legged stool sitting unceremoniously in the center of the room, an empty cloak rack in the far left corner— and the rack and shattered as usual, it was devoid of a single cloak.

  On the far wall, an oak bookcase containing various leather-bound volumes and, rare, crumbling scrolls hid a rather large hole that Krin had created when he was twelve. Besides the alchemical table underneath the ventilation flue, that was it…which meant that there was no sign of this parcel he was supposed to be looking for, and certainly no place to hide.

  Where did Nicholas say it was hidden? He strained to remember. ‘Under the floor, near my writing desk,’ he’d said. Krin stepped back to one wall, and studied the floor. The geometric pattern of the mosaic underneath the thin frost caught Krin’s eye.

  Of course!

  Quickly, he dove to the floor, and ran his fingers along the edge of the pattern, searching for a release switch. From somewhere out in the hallway, a door, crashed open. Three more doors before they got to him. He could hear them calling out as the cleared each room, making their way to him. They would be on him in seconds.

  Eyeing the mosaic more closely, he noticed a small square tile elevated a fraction of an inch above the rest. He pressed down on it, and was rewarded with a satisfying click. A trap door swung down revealing a small crawl space carved out under the floor. It was big enough for him to squeeze his five and a half foot frame inside. He mused that it was big enough to fit two of him if need be. Maybe that was Nicholas’ reason for building it in the first place—to hide both of them should some unknown danger present itself. Even more fortuitous, there was a long bundle, wrapped in a velvet cloth with an envelope pinned to it.

  “I think it came from in here.” A gruff voice announced from the other side of the study’s locked door. The guards were nearly upon him. Silently, Krin ducked into the crawl space, then pushed the trap door up until it clicked into place. The moment the Romans crashed through the door, Krin instinctively blinked, and disappeared.

  ***

  Garhet fidgeted in the brace of shrubbery next to the house he had been using as cover. He hadn’t liked the idea of Krin scampering down the vent flue at all. It just seemed too foolish an approach for his own sensibilities. His nervous mood turned absolutely foul upon hearing a cacophonous clatter from within the house. Krin had been inside far too long. Granted, if the soldiers within had caught the lad, he would have heard it by now.

  A few more minutes, he thought. If he's not back soon, I’ll storm into the house. I'll retrieve the boy myself…and heaven help the soldier that gets in me way.

  It was the least he could do. He owed so much more than his life to protect the young orphan from Hibernia. Though Krin was not yet aware of it, the little man owed his father—his real father—more than he could ever repay. Heck, his entire clan owed their very freedom to the man.

  But Lord, let’s try not to let it come to that just yet. He glanced skyward in silent supplication. I’ve still a few things I’d like to do…a few places I’d like to see…before that day comes.

  A scuffle on the roof startled Garhet from his reverie. He looked in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing but a sheet of ice coating the top of the house. Silence hung in the air. He looked to his right to see Sol, leaning against the wall of the courtyard’s fence. He appeared to be sleeping soundly.

  “Garhet!”

  The dwarf's heart skipped at the sound of his name. He looked up to see Krin’s smile illuminating the darkness. He triumphantly held up a velvet-wrapped bundle in the air. He had done it. He had found the package. Now he had to get Krin out of here. Things could get really dicey, if Nicholas and Magus Prime’s concern over the boy proved accurate.

  He knew Krin was not going to like what that letter said.

  FIVE

  Three nights later, sequestered in the confines of a shallow cave nestled in a small canyon, well out of view of the Hadris Road, Krin turned the skewer once more as the freshly killed boar sizzled over the fire. He and Garhet had been on the run for two days; skirting squads of Roman soldiers and bounty hunters alike, and masking their trail as best they could in order to hide their true destination from their pursuers. Feeling relatively safe now, they had spent the last day making their way west, to the seaport of Andriaki. Their plan was to book passage on the first vessel they could find bound for the wild country the Romans referred to as Germania. Once they had established camp for the night, Krin had spent the better part of the evening tracking down, and killing their supper.

  Nicholas had always considered hunting unnecessary since the parishioners regularly provided them with food and clothing, Krin often accompanied Justin into the wilds just outside of Myra on hunting trips.

  On these excursions, he had learned to track larger animals and set traps for smaller game relatively well. However, what he had really excelled at was archery. For the first time in his life, he was pleased to find he was skilled in something besides ‘tomfoolery’. At least he knew that neither he nor Garhet would starve on their unexpected journey. A journey that seemed to Krin to be the opposite end of the world.

  He poked the meat with a knife, decided it wasn’t quite ready, and turned the skewer again. Then, leaning against a boulder and turned his attention to the thing that had been haunting him since the moment he had left Myra.

  Nicholas’ letter.

  Pulling the expensive parchment from his pack, he unfurled it. The full meaning of it still alluded him.

  The first read-through had been cryptic at best. It had taken two thorough readings for Garhet to get Krin to understand his adopted father’s wishes. He should leave Myra at once. Krin had insisted they break into the Myran prison to rescue Nicholas, but Garhet’s level-headedness prevailed in the end. It would have been far too dangerous, and would have accomplished nothing in the end. Leaving his father behind meant he was no closer to gaining the answers he needed to unravel the strange mess his life had become over these last few nights.

  And the letter only served to open a universe of questions he had not even known to ask.

  So now, against the boulder with the campfire his only source of light, Krin scanned the roughly scribbled letter again:

  Dear boy,

  It pains me to write this letter. It is a task I have dreaded since I first
rescued you from slavers as a wee lad. But circumstances now dictate you know the truth…or at least, enough of the truth to set you on the course of God’s divine plan for you. A noble and important destiny, He has in mind for you, I’m sure.

  But before one can go on a journey, their map must be turned right side up, and that, dear Krin, is what this letter is for. It is the astrolabe in which to calibrate your compass for the journey that awaits. The lighthouse in which to navigate in rough winds, and rocky shores.

  Well, enough metaphors. Enough stalling. I might as well get to the point, and get this over with.

  My boy, it pains me to no end to tell you that I have been lying to you all these years. Perhaps ‘lying’ is not completely accurate, but it certainly feels that way to me. But the point is, I have kept an awful truth from you, and, although I am not entirely certain as to your current predicament at the time you read this letter, I suspect it has everything to do with what I am about to share.

  The lie—that great falsehood that I’ve kept secret for so long—is in regards to your heritage. Your lineage on your father’s side, not your mother’s.

  Your mother’s story you know well enough, and all of it true. It is your father’s that sets you on the road now with brigands and cutthroats no doubt on your heels. It is why I am either imprisoned or murdered—Lord only knows which at this point. But it is your ancestry that ties all of this together.

  Krin, your father was not a Druid priest from the isle of Hibernia as I’ve insisted through the years. His story is much more complicated than that. Much more dangerous and I’m not sure…

  “Ya know, lad, no matter how many times ye read it, ‘tis gonna say the same thing,” Garhet interrupted as he strolled into the cavern with armload of wood to fuel the fire. He tossed the bounty onto dwindling flames, and teased it back to life with a few quick breaths. “And it ain’t gonna get any easier either.”

  Krin smiled simply for the sake of being polite, rolled the parchment back up, and stuffed it into his pack. “I know. But I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it all. Trying to figure out what it all means.” He leaned forward, sliced into the roasting pork, and decided it was perfect. He cut several chunks off, and placed them onto a plate of tree bark, and offered it to his friend.

  “Want some?”

  Garhet shook his head, pity filling his kind good eye, and huffed out a sigh. “No, thanks, lad. Have my own dinner waitin’ on me.” He moved over to his bedding—little more than a handful of pine tree boughs and a couple of wool blankets to keep them warm—and plopped down on folded legs. “Nicholas told you you’d get your answers when we get to Thana Pel. No need fretting about it ‘til then, I say.” He reached into his pack and withdrew a clump of rock candy.

  “What about you? Want some real food?” He held the confectionary delight out.

  Krin laughed, shaking his head before tossing a chunk of pork into his mouth. The bearded man mirrored his action, plopping the lump of candy past yellow-stained teeth with a rapturous smile.

  “Is that really all you eat, Garhet? Candy?”

  “What else is there?” The short man guffawed at this, then sucked feverishly at the candy. Krin watched in fascination—and not a little disgust—for several moments before moving over to his bedding, and dropping to the mattress made of pine boughs. He then reached under his blanket, and pulled out the parcel he had found along with that infernal enigmatic letter.

  It had gone on to explain that it was too dangerous to document his specific lineage on paper, but that there was a very unique kind of monastery nestled deep in a forest valley near the heart of the Roman province of Germania—a place called Thana Pel by its inhabitants. Nicholas had commissioned Krin with the task of seeking out the monastery, and presenting them with the parcel to authenticate his identity. The monks, who belonged to an Order known as the Magi, would then reveal everything to Krin in their own time. No real answers. No further explanation. Basically, just “Sorry for lying to you, Krin, my boy, all these many years. Have a very nice trip.

  Krin sighed, looking down at the cloth-wrapped object he now cradled in his arms.

  “I suppose you’re gonna gawk at that thing all night too, eh?” Garhet growled, a line of candy-coated drool cascading past his lips, and into his beard.

  “And why not?”

  “‘Cause it ain’t a toy, that’s why not! It’s dangerous. More dangerous than the metal it’s made of, I can tell ye that.”

  Ignoring the warning in a fit of defiant irritation, he hastily untied the parcel, then slid the object out from the protective cloth. He took the handle of a brilliant gold-handled sword into his hand. The blade gleamed in the light of the fire, nearly blinding Krin with its glare. In the letter, Nicholas had called it Glalbrirer, which according to Garhet meant ‘Defender of Joy’.

  “It’s as much a mystery as Nicholas’ stupid letter. I’ve never known the old man to take up a sword in his life. Why would he expect me to? What does he want from me?”

  Garhet laid back on his bed, propping up his stocky frame with an elbow. He let out a single breath, then shook his head sadly.

  “Look Krin,” he said. “I wish I could tell ye everything, but I’ve sworn myself to the Magi. I’ve not always been the most upstandin’ of people, but they saw past that, and helped me when I was at my lowest. I’m their servant now. They tasked me with bringing ye to them. I’m not permitted to answer yer questions. That’s the Magus Prime's responsibility. A very wise man named Calibus.” He bit down on the candy, and swallowed. “Though I ain’t able to give ye the answers ye seek, I can give ye a few lessons along the way to prepare ye for what awaits. I can prepare ye a bit in regards to the threats we may face along this journey, and I can tell ye about the people of Thana Pel, and the creatures we might encounter there.”

  “Creatures?” The vision of the strange little beings clutching tight to his leg as he had plummeted down Nicholas’s vent flue flashed unbidden in his mind’s eye, and he shuddered.

  The man laughed. “Oh, aye, lad. Creatures like ye’ve never imagined in all your dreams. Creatures both dark and brutal, and wild and beautiful. Creatures to make your skin crawl, and creatures that'll make your head swim with their loveliness.

  “And that’s only the beginning. I’ll need to tell you about the Great Divide…the cataclysmic separation of worlds that occurred when the Thanaheim—that’s our world—was drowned by the waters of heaven. And of the Dhunarheme, called Wyndter by some, the world of dark spirits, and the Fae. These things you must know before you arrive in Thana Pel, young Krin. You must learn these lessons well if we have any hope of surviving this trip.”

  It all sounded so fantastic. Creatures? Spirits? The Fae? The stuff of tales often told to keep children in line. Or worse, the things built around Pagan myths, and old legends shared by his mysterious kin from Hibernia.

  “But these things are nothing but myths. Legends! Superstitions to scare children, and primitives that dwell outside of the Empire,” Krin said, perhaps a bit too harshly than he intended. “Are you…are you making fun of me? Making fun of my Celtic heritage?”

  The little man’s eyes widened, and shook his head furiously. “Oh, no lad! Never! I’d never mock the blood that flows through those veins of yers.” He paused momentarily, as if reflecting on some nearly forgotten memory, then continued. “But before you judge too soon about the veracity of my tales, remember this, boy…these were things yer own mother would have taken to heart. Ye’d call her a primitive, would ye lad?”

  Krin looked over at Garhet, and shook his head. “I suppose not,” Krin said, absently polishing the strange blade with its protective cloth. “All right, Garhet. When does school begin?”

  His companion beamed at the question. “First thing in the morning,” he said, rolling onto his back, and closing his eyes. “On our way to Andriaki, and the ship that’ll be takin’ us home.”

  Krin leaned back in his own bed, rolling a single word Garhet had
just said over and over in his mind.

  Home.

  SIX

  Oceanus Atlanticus

  A Month Later

  “Move aside, lad! I’m gonna be sick,” Garhet mumbled as he pushed Krin out of his way, and lurched toward the merchant ship’s gunwale. Hanging his head over the railing, he heaved, spitting out curses along with the remains of the beet stew he had eaten for breakfast earlier that day. When he pulled away, his pale face glowed almost phosphorescent in the dwindling light.

  The sky continued to darken all around them, more from the ominous clouds barreling in from the west, than the setting sun. A storm was approaching fast; streaks of lightning, and the clap of distant thunder could already been seen from the deck. The roiling waves were strengthening, and the small, twenty men crew were busying themselves with the task of securing all the riggings in anticipation for the encroaching tumult.

  Krin said nothing; his face a mask of stoic determination as the vessel listed dangerously to port. But the tumultuous typhoon slowly bearing down on them was the least of his concerns. No, another type of storm violently raged within him at that moment.

  The journey from the cave to the Andriaki seaport had gone without a hitch. The plan had been to spend a few weeks in town, working odd jobs in order to pay for transport to Germania with one of the nicer vessels berthed there. But the sudden appearance of a cutthroat group of mercenaries—vying for the bounty General Alexandrius had placed on Krin’s head—had cut their stay short.

  It had been sheer luck, or perhaps as Nicholas would insist, the providence of God, that they had found a merchant ship, within the backwater port city, bound immediately for the Roman fortifications in the wilderness of Germania. Garhet and Krin, hunters on their heels at every turn, had managed to strike a deal with the captain for their passage. They would work their way to Germania; cooking, cleaning, and whatever other tasks the sailors were loath to do. With a lascivious grin, the captain had accepted, and the two had labored until every single bone in Krin’s body ached from exertion. Garhet, whose people were used to hard work, had been having an easier time of it. At least, until the waves began rolling in earlier that day.