The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  Their faces chilled Krin to the core. Round, bald, little heads with sharp, pointed ears extending nearly a foot from their skulls with flat snouts and two enormous nostrils that reminded Krin of the African apes he had seen in the bazaar back home. Two rows of jagged, uneven teeth stretched past their lips whenever they barked out their indecipherable taunts. Even from a distance, their teeth appeared as though they had been filed into points, giving the unmistakable impression that these were exclusively carnivores.

  Though Krin had never seen their kind before, he had heard enough of Garhet’s lessons to recognize the creatures for what they were. Go’oblidin. Goblins.

  They were fighting only one adversary, and to Krin’s complete surprise, it wasn’t Garhet. Surrounded by the murderous goblins, immense falx flashing in the light of the rising sun, stood a battered and bleeding Ulfilas.

  He leapt into the air, then screaming as his feet returned to the freshly fallen snow, he sliced one of the creatures in two—from the neck down. Immediately, he was pushed back by two enormous, black-veined arrows when they slammed into the animal skull that formed his shoulder armor.

  Krin quickly surveyed the terrain below, and discovered he had not noticed the seven archers clinging to the shadows of the trees on the other side of the gully. In all, twenty-seven nightmarish creatures against one man—a giant yes—but the odds just didn't seem fair. He inched closer to the edge of the embankment, then stopped. The image of the bounty hunter lifting his friend into the air.

  His mind’s eye flashed back to that single terrifying moment. The wind and rain lashing out at them as if the gods of the sea were enraged over their trespassing. Krin had felt so helpless. Bow in hand, with no clear shot that would have ended the whole affair. Instead, he had opted to shoot the giant in the leg, and Garhet had nearly paid the ultimate price for it. The giant’s eyes burned with rage when he had cried out in pain, then nothing. He had simply tossed the dwarf over the railing. So flippant. So casual about it as if life and death meant absolutely nothing to him.

  Krin found Ulfilas to be as vile and loathsome as the black-hearted creatures down below, and didn’t merit any assistance from him.

  Let him get what’s coming to him. A grim wave of satisfaction washed over him as he pressed himself lower to the ground to watch the battle unfold. Off to the right, a flash of movement caught his eye. A blur of motion barreled down the slope opposite him, followed by a familiar, grizzled voice shouting, “Al nerigu Ya’yawarim!”

  Krin tracked the figure; a small, bearded man’s head with a double-bladed battle axe raised high above his head. Garhet. It appeared at first that the dwarf was racing to join the goblins against a common foe. Then without warning, his axe swept through the air, and imbedded itself into one of their quill-covered backs.

  Twenty-six.

  The dwarf wrenched the axe free, wheeled to his left, and brought the flat of the blade down onto the head of another; smashing its skull into pieces.

  Twenty-five.

  Garhet, what are you doing? He tried to kill you, and he'll do it again given the chance.

  Nestled in the shaded boughs of an evergreen, Krin gawked silently as the dwarf blazed a trail through the goblins with the ferocity of a hurricane. Ulfilas nodded at his new ally and pulled the arrows from his armor. With a renewed vigor, he continued his attack against the small horde. Lethal falx flashing again as he sliced through several of the diminutive creatures simultaneously.

  Twenty-four. Twenty-three. Twenty-two.

  A new barrage of arrows rained down on the battlefield, indifferent to who they struck. A single shaft grazed past Garhet’s already-scarred cheek, drawing a line of blood across his face, before impaling a goblin behind him.

  Twenty-one.

  Those archers will slaughter them. Krin searched the tree line again, identifying the location of each bowman.

  If I can just get my hands on one of those bows…yeah…that might work.

  He backed away from ledge, climbed to his feet, then slipped through the woods like a ghost. What fighting skills Krin lacked, he more than made up for with stealth and cunning. It seemed that he had spent most his time on this venture confused–frightened.

  No more! He decided. That ends now.

  He moved swiftly without making a sound. He alternated watching the soft earth beneath his feet, and the battle waging in the gully. Krin noticed that the shaft of single arrow protruding from Garhet’s right thigh. The dwarf paid no heed to it. With a roar, he barreled forward, finding a new target, he severed the goblin’s arm with a single swipe of his axe.

  Likewise, Ulfilas seemed to be unfazed by the fact he more closely resembled a seamstress’ pin cushion that a warrior. He too seemed unperturbed by the arrows, and grabbed two of his assailants. Lifting them high in the air, he smashed them together with his powerful arms.

  Krin turned his attention back to the path, located the nearest archer—now just several paces ahead. He slowed to a near crawl. As he crept closer, he made sure to stay behind the black archer. When he was just a couple of steps away, Krin silently hefted Glalbrirer above his head, and prepared to strike his enemy down.

  From behind? A sudden wave of doubt washed over him. Where’s the honor in that?

  The question was ridiculous. He wasn’t a warrior, and they weren’t at war. These creatures—these goblins—were nothing more than brigands. Highwaymen who would slit Krin’s throat in his sleep if given the chance. Plus, Garhet needed help. Such notions of honor and morality surely had no place in a situation such as this.

  But as he readied to strike, the weight of the blade grew heavier. This just seemed too much like murder. The sword—whose name meant ‘Defender of Joy’—was meant for much nobler things. Garhet’s own medallion demonstrated as such. How could he tarnish it with such an act?

  A twig snapped behind Krin, interrupting his train of thought. He spun around to see another goblin pouncing towards him; spiked club swinging right at his exposed head.

  FOURTEEN

  Krin dove to the ground, just as the club swept past his face. The goblin, seemed to expect the move, and followed through with the swing. This allowed momentum to carry the creature around three-hundred-and-sixty degrees like a discus thrower. As he spun, the goblin lifted the truncheon high above his head, then down to where Krin lay sprawled on the pine-needle covered ground. But before the club could connect, Krin rolled over onto his back, and thrust out his right arm in an instinctive bid to block the blow, forgetting the presence of Glalbrirer in his hand. The blade slipped past the goblin’s ribs, rupturing his heart, and spilling a geyser of oil-black blood onto the ground. The creature’s club slipped harmlessly from his lifeless fingers just as the he crumpled to the ground next to Krin.

  A shriek erupted behind Krin, who craned his head to see the goblin archer he had been stalking now enraged over the loss of his comrade. The goblin snarled as it pulled back its bow, and took aim at Krin's chest. Knowing an expert arrow shot from this distance would more than likely be a fatal blow, Krin flew to his feet, ran pell-mell toward the archer with his sword raised to strike. The black arrow was released with the twang of the bowstring. Despite Krin’s best efforts to avoid it, the projectile slammed into his right shoulder with enough force to send him reeling backward on top of the fallen goblin.

  A blossom of both fire and ice welled up as the beat of his heart thumped against the wound. He looked in disbelief at the arrow, now piercing his flesh.

  I’ve...I’ve been shot! His entire body grew numb. Immobile. He glanced down, once more to the arrow, then back at the archer, whose hateful curses failed to penetrate the roaring within Krin’s ears.

  I’ve got to get this out of me!

  The archer, frenzied at the sight of his injured foe, hurled his bow away, then drew a jagged-looking dagger from a deerskin sheath.

  Gotta get this arrow out of me!

  Krin’s hands shook violently, as he reached for the shaft, and prepared to ya
nk it from his shoulder. Then, he suddenly remembered something he had once heard from an old battle-weary soldier.

  Remove it, you bleed out.

  The archer, still screaming its muffled cries, ran toward him; his dagger raised in the air.

  With no more time to act, Krin snapped the arrow’s shaft a couple of fingers-width up from where it intersected with his skin, and tried to scramble away from the oncoming goblin. But it was too late. The creature, whose maw stretched impossibly wide to reveal tendrils of saliva stretching from his serrated teeth, leapt on top of him. Krin tried to roll, hoping to throw the foul thing off of him, but the goblin’s sinewy arms were too strong. His clawed left hand dug into Krin’s injured shoulder, as he raised his dagger to strike.

  But just as the creature was about to land the fatal blow, an enormous axe sailed end-over-end, striking the goblin in the back. With a howl, the goblin tumbled forward, dead.

  An instant later, Garhet was at Krin’s side. With a furrowed brow, the dwarf examined the arrow fragment imbedded deep in Krin’s shoulder, and scowled.

  “Laddie, what did ye think ye were doin’?”

  “I’m pretty sure he thought he was tryin’ to help you.” The deep, grizzled voice of Ulfilas came from Krin’s left. “Brave though it might have been, it was plum foolish.” The giant slipped into view and with a dark smile. “You’re worth a lot less to me dead, boy.”

  Wincing at the effort, Krin pushed himself up on his elbows, and glanced around the gully to see a mess of black-scaly bodies littering the ground. The unlikely team of the giant and dwarf won the day without his assistance after all. Maybe even in spite of it.

  Garhet glared at the Visigoth, then looked at Krin with a shake of his head. He then eased Krin up, and wrapped his arm around the boy’s uninjured shoulder.

  “Here lad. Let’s get ye back to camp, and we’ll fix that wound right up.”

  ***

  “If you think for one minute I’m gonna let you take the boy back to Lycia, you’ve another thing coming!” Garhet glared up at his gargantuan counterpart.

  Ulfilas laid an unconscious Krin back onto his make-shift bed of boughs. On the way back to their encampment, the boy had passed out in his arms. Both the pain of his injury and blood loss, had sapped his remaining strength.

  “And I don’t exactly see where you have much say in the matter, Runt.” Ulfilas backed away allowing Garhet to kneel beside Krin.

  Having already collected the necessary ingredients—some tree bark, a few Oliona leaves, and the cap of some malodorous toadstool—he began working to crush the ingredients together using a flat rock and a fist-sized stone.

  “In case ye forgot, Nosebleed, I saved yer life back there,” Garhet said without looking up. “You owe me.”

  Ulfilas put his hands on his hips. “And I don’t recall having asked for your assistance.”

  “If I hadn't stepped in, you’d be dead right about now. Those things back there weren’t exactly yer typical highwaymen, if ye didn’t notice.”

  The big man scowled. “My people are familiar enough with their kind. We know how to deal with them easily enough. Just as we know of your kind, dwarf.” In simmering silence, Ulfilas glared down at Garhet, then turned and began pacing the camp as the dwarf worked at easing the arrow from Krin’s shoulder. “What I’m troubled by most—what’s troubled me ever since first laying eyes on him—is the boy himself.”

  Garhet froze. “Wh-what do ye mean by that?”

  The bounty hunter scoffed. “Do you take me for that much a fool, Runt? I know the signs. Though their kind hasn’t been seen in these parts in generations, their songs are still sung in our mead houses. That sword he carries is telling enough…but the silvery hair? Those purple eyes of his?” Ulfilas shook his head as he paced. “But if the stories are true, there’s somethin’ off about him. His skin…it’s not been dyed, and I haven’t seen a single lifeglyph on him. Not so much as a jot or tittle. At his age, if he is what I think he is; his skin should be covered with them.”

  Garhet resumed his ministrations, applying the medicines he had concocted to the open wound, then wrapped the shoulder in a swath of cloth he had managed to scavenge from his cloak and tunic. “I think yer imagination is runnin’ away with you.”

  “I’m Visigoth,” he said tersely. “We have no imagination.”

  Garhet remained silent, inspecting his handiwork. Confident he had done the best job he could, he stood to his feet, and turned to look at the giant. It was time to change the subject.

  “Those goblins weren’t alone. We were being watched from the opposite ridge. A handful of them managed to skirt off, but they’ll be back,” he said. “And probably with reinforcements. Since we can’t afford to move the boy yet, one of us needs to stay with him while the other sets up a perimeter, and keeps a lookout.”

  Ulfilas stopped pacing, mid-stride. Turning to look at the dwarf, he folded his arms across his chest, and glared down at the little man. “And I suppose you want me to be the lookout, right?”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  “Right, so you can scoop up the boy and skedaddle the moment my back is turned? I don’t think so.” He unfolded his arms and pointed a finger at Garhet.

  “I don't know what you and the Roman ain’t tellin’ me about that boy, but I do know one thing…he’s my ticket to freedom. I ain’t about to let you take that away from me. He’s coming back with me! Whether you like it or not.”

  Garhet stepped away from Krin, and stomped over to the Visigoth, glaring up at him with a single burning eye. Jabbing a stubby finger at Ulfilas’ kneecap, through clenched teeth he growled, “Over my dead body, stretch. I owe that boy—owe his father—more than you could ever understand. Ye’ll have my axe cleft into yer skull before I’ll let ye lay one filthy finger on him again.”

  Ulfilas smiled, then crouched down with his hands on his knees to look Garhet square in the face. “I’d like to see you…”

  Garhet’s fist hammered against the giant’s jaw, sending a couple shards of teeth flying from his mouth. Ulfilas reeled back, his eyes wide as he brought his hands up to his mouth. Before he could recover, the dwarf scampered up the big man’s right leg, leapt into the air once he reached the belt, and pelted him with five more punches before gravity brought Ulfilas crashing to the ground. Garhet landed on top of the man’s chest, unleashing a flurry of punches and kicks before the bounty hunter could even catch his breath.

  Though his breed was built for endurance, even Garhet could not keep up his onslaught for long. Soon, muscles burning, his assault slowed and, as he pulled back his arm to land another punch, Ulfilas’ hand struck like a viper. He grabbed the dwarf by the throat, and tossed him across the campsite and into the trees beyond. With a berserker roar, the giant loped off after him

  ***

  As Krin slept, oblivious to the bone-crunching brawl raging just outside the camp’s perimeter, four sets of jet-black eyes peered at him through the foliage. One black tongue whipped between a row of jagged teeth, and licked its owner’s lips in famished hunger.

  The eyes, as if sharing one consciousness, flicked over to the sleeping one’s companions. The two had obliterated their brothers in the gully, and hardly broke a sweat doing so. The wretched darhk nagi—the dwarf—had changed everything. Without him, the human would have surely fallen. Such a loss. At his size, the human would have provided the others, and especially the Mother, a meal like they had not seen in months. Instead, the darhk nagi interference had deprived them of their glorious feast.

  So it was only fitting, they had decided, that the young one would make the perfect consolation prize. Lean, and muscular, the one called Krin would not nearly be as tasty…nor would he provide the quantity of sweet meat they all longed for. But in his current predicament, the goblin called Bryx could not afford to be picky. He was the largest and most formidable of the Mother’s hunters, and if his hunting party returned empty-handed, he would certainly be considered an adequate s
ubstitute for a missed meal. Or worse, he had be handed over to the Nerthani as an appeasement offering to the great goddess.

  Bryx glanced once more in the direction of the boy’s companions. The two were still locked in battle, fighting for dominance of this strange new clan.

  Good. Let large one squash nasty darhk nagi.

  Believing the way was clear, he waved his three companions forward. Like shadows, the four ebony-skinned creatures emerged from the undergrowth, stealing over to the unconscious youth. They approached cautiously, unsure if perhaps this was some elaborate trap. They stepped forward in unison, stopped, looked around for potential ambush, and then stepped again until they stood over the youngling’s inert form.

  Bryx nodded toward Ahkna, then pointed down at the furs covering their prey. The smaller goblin hesitated, but a low, stealthy growl from Bryx warned him into obedience. He crouched down and cautiously slid the furs off the youth, revealing him to the goblin hunters for the first time.

  Bryx hissed at the sight; the quills on his back bristling instinctively. Ahkna and his two brothers nearly squealed in horror, but managed to stop themselves before giving their presence away. They couldn’t, however, control the involuntary step back from the sleeping form with silvery-white hair.

  “Grah-lachten,” Bryx whispered. Dark elf. A term not uttered from a goblin’s lips in nearly four thousand years…until a week ago, when they had captured the girl. Now, there was this one. A male. What did it mean? The dark elves were extinct from the Thana, along with all the other Bluhg-lachrg—Spirits of Winter. They had to be…for everyone’s sake.