The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  A wall of trees, their branches intertwined in an impenetrable web, stretched around its perimeter like towering sentinels. Ten small huts, barracks from the looks of them, littered the grounds in a haphazard semi-circle. They surrounded one much larger, and more opulent structure that occupied the center of camp.

  Most of the round dwellings were made of mud and wood. The larger one was rectangular; adorned with an assortment of jewels—emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and opals—the size of Garhet’s fist.

  The Nerthanic Tabernacle. Garhet grimaced in disgust. The temple of their accursed goddess. He shuddered at the thought.

  Not because the Earth Swimmer was anything particularly evil or fierce—though she certainly could be if aroused. No, it was something she represented to Garhet’s own people.

  His gaze roamed until they caught sight of the battle now moving toward the center of town. Two of the cats were being attacked from all sides. Spears, swords, arrows, and even a few picks and shovels were being hurled relentlessly at the two beasts. And just as Garhet had suspected, they were doing about as much damage as if the goblins had been lobbing children’s toys at them. For every solid hit the goblin defenders made, three of them were shredded into a bloody mess. And the cats continued their advance as if they were…

  Searching for something… someone?

  Could it be a coincidence that the Cra'chuna appeared the moment Krin arrived in Thana Pel? They hadn’t been seen in years…not since the death of Sair’n Kryl, anyway. Killed by Krin’s own biological father. Garhet wasn’t certain why the Magi had kept the boy’s existence secret since they had first heard about the child-slave in Hibernia. Nor had he been told his importance, or even why he had been sent to retrieve him, but he was painfully aware that something dark was brewing behind closed doors in Madagus Keep. The Magi were fearful, and that was an amazing feat in its own right. It hadn’t taken long for Garhet to surmise Krin’s impressive lineage, and if an old battle-weary dwarf could figure it out, then certainly Sair’n Kryl’s cult cronies could as well.

  First, the cult assassin in Nicholas’ courtyard. Now, these oversized house cats. Someone’s going to an awful lot of trouble to see that the boy doesn’t make it to the Keep.

  This realization made finding Krin quickly, all the more crucial. Garhet hadn’t considered that when he hatched the plan of leading the cats here. As long as the Cra'chuna were stalking through the village, and he didn't know where the goblins were keeping Krin, the boy was undoubtedly in grave danger.

  He had simply wanted to use them as a diversion while Ulfilas and he slipped in, and rescued the boy unnoticed. Now he was beginning to suspect his diversion was every bit as dangerous as the threat the goblins posed. More so, probably.

  Garhet continued scanning of the village until he noticed three things that quickly materialized into a new plan. The first were the six feet wide trenches dug serpentine throughout the encampment. The second was a rather high mound of dirt near the eastern edge of town; a mound with a rather innocuous wooden trap door cut into it. And third…four over-sized drums resting unguarded at the base of the mound.

  The dwarf smiled. It was time to get mischievous.

  NINETEEN

  “What happened?” Krin's voice was barely a whisper. The drumming had stopped a minute or so before as had the rumbling and shifting dirt under their feet.

  “I am not sure,” Finleara said. “The Heralds ceased their summons.” She moved away from him, leaving Krin feeling awkward and vulnerable.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “It will be a temporary reprieve at best.” Her voice echoed to his left, so he turned toward that direction. “We need to use our time wisely, and figure out how to escape.”

  “We have a perfectly good way at our disposal,” he said, wishing he could see her face. “Granted, I don’t have as much control over my gift as I’d like, but…”

  “And I said, no!” The very notion seemed to terrify her. She clearly was aware of what ‘rifting’ meant. Krin was confused by her fear; Garhet, who knew of it as well, seemed to have no fear nor had he warned of any hidden dangers in using the gift. Although Krin had staunchly refused, the dwarf had even encouraged him to practice a few times on their journey. But desperate times necessitated extraordinary risks.

  After an uncomfortable moment of silence, she continued. “It is just not a good idea,” she said. “Not around me anyway. There are…things…in Wyndter searching for me. Opening a rift in such proximity to me would prove…dangerous. For both of us. Trust me on this, please.”

  He knew that Wyndter was the land of the Dhuna. Dangerous things lurked there; things that Nicholas’ God had decided to remove from the world of mortals. If those same creatures were hunting her, he could understand the hesitancy. Prudence dictated that he drop it unless there was no other way.

  He opened his mouth to tell her as much when angry cries erupted overheard. Shouts of “Darhk nagi! Darhk nagi!” drifted down to them, followed immediately by a great clamor of running feet, and clinking weapons.

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “A dwarf.” Finleara mumbled, almost to herself.

  “Excuse me?”

  “They are saying there's a dwarf in the village. What in heaven’s name is a solitary dwarf doing attacking a goblin village?”

  “Garhet!” A sudden surge of hope flooded through Krin. “It’s my friend Garhet!”

  The girl gasped. “Garhet? As in Garhetnor Bliix?”

  “Um, yeah. You know him?”

  “You were traveling with Garhetnor Bliix? And in this entire time here, you failed to mention this fact to me?” Her voice nearly screeched on the last two words.

  A wave of irritation arose in Krin’s chest. “I honestly didn’t think it was any of your business,” he snapped. The strange white-haired girl was beginning to grate on his nerves.

  “Of course, it is my business,” she hissed. “I’m Captain of the Magi Guard.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean two denarii to me. All I know, is that I owe that man my life four times over, and I know nothing about you, other than you and I have similar hair.”

  He suddenly felt the girl’s hot breath against his face. She had moved with such stealth and speed from one side of the cell to the other that he startled at her abrupt presence.

  “Look, boy!” He felt a finger poke him in the chest. “If you want to get out of this alive, we need to get two things straight. Right. Now. First, even though the Magus Prime has placed his trust inexplicably in Garhetnor Bliix, I do not. I do not trust any dwarves of any persuasion, whether they have vowed fidelity to the Magi Order or not.

  “And Bliix is a dwarf like no other. A con man. A charlatan. A nimble-fingered thief. If I had my way, he would have long ago seen the business end of the gallows, but Calibus would not hear of it.”

  Krin opened his mouth to protest, but another stab of the girl’s finger silenced him.

  “Second, I am without a doubt, the best chance you have of surviving the next ten minutes, so I would drop your overly cocky attitude immediately. Do you understand?”

  He briefly contemplated rifting just to spite the obnoxious little tart for the horrific things she had spouted about his friend. Never in his life had Krin met a nobler, more kind-hearted and devoted man than Nicholas. To slander his good name like that was tantamount to blasphemy, and Krin decided at that moment that his initial reactions to his first encounter with the girl had been skewed by his dismal circumstances. She had been a bit of light in an otherwise dank world. Now that he was getting to know her better, however, he realized he was beginning to loath the arrogant and abrasive elf more than he imagined possible.

  “The moment we’re out of here,” he hissed, “we part ways for good. Understood?”

  “Gladly.”

  “Good!” He spun around defiantly to search the cell for a way out, only to remember there wasn’t enough light to see.

  Bu-bu-bu-bum. Bu-bu-bu-bum
. Bu-bu-bu-bum.

  The drums had started up again, more frantic than before. The rhythm seemed off somehow. Different. The rumbling beneath them resumed almost along with the drums Within seconds, Krin felt himself being lifted up with the great upheaval of dirt and stone as the ground began to swell under his feet. He leapt off the growing mound toward the wall of the cell, and searched blindly for his irritating companion.

  “Leara?”

  “The name is Finleara,” she said, surprisingly close to his ear.

  “Not really concerned with your name right now. That thing is coming and fast. You’re apparently the girl with the plan. So what are we going to do?”

  Unexpectedly, she grasped his hand and squeezed. “Something ancient and a bit dangerous if not performed just right,” she said softly. “But I'll need your help.”

  The shifting soil was nearly deafening now. The air was thick with dust, and swiftly becoming unbreathable.

  “What do you need?”

  “Follow my lead. Try to match my tones and pitch as perfectly as you are able.”

  Tones and pitch? Before he could voice his confusion, the elf began to hum. Her voice, like the lulling trickle of a gentle brook mixed harmoniously with the flowing lilt of a choir of starlings, echoed through the chamber. The song was haunting; both alien, and oddly familiar, that stirred something primal within his very core. Krin had the strange sensation that he had heard the song somewhere before. Something from his youth. It flowed through him like the healing waters of Pamukkale, back home, permeating every fiber of his being with a rich, powerful surge of well-being. Finleara squeezed his hand tight, reminding him of his role, and he quickly began to hum self-consciously.

  Krin had never been much of a singer. Even at his father’s church, and they had sung hymns as an act of worship, he never quite felt he had the knack for it; always seemed to be just a hair off-key…or something akin to it. He could never pinpoint the precise problem with his voice. All he knew was there was something distinctly different about his own singing to anyone else he had ever heard before.

  Of course, no one in the church would admit it. No, they had bestowed the most embarrassing accolades upon him, going on and on about the bishop’s son having the voice of angels. Even Nicholas himself had appeared beside himself with mortification over such praises by his congregation. He had smile, red-cheeked, offer his gratitude toward them for noticing, and usher the boy out of the church as quickly as the service was over.

  But despite his fears—his insecurities—he hummed along with Finleara. If the strange girl thought it could do some good, then who was he to argue. She understood the Nerthani much better than he. For all he knew, his horrific singing might scare the creature off.

  So he hummed. And the more he hummed, the more familiar the song grew in his mind. After a short while, Krin no longer needed to anticipate Finleara’s next note. He seemed to know it instinctively. After a short while, notes gave way to words. Lyrics. Verses in a language he didn't recall ever hearing, nor did he fully understand it. Before he knew it, the song had taken him over, nearly consuming him in harmonic bliss. His voice, perfectly in tune with the desires of his own heart, eclipsed Finleara’s own, ringing out for all to hear.

  The words came effortlessly, like a flood of tranquil waters spilling past Krin’s trembling lips. Their cell seemed to vibrate perfectly, synchronized with the strange lullaby, pulsing in unison with his every breath. The notes washed over the earthen walls, coating them in a sheen of ethereal ice-blue radiance. The light’s intensity grew, bathing the two prisoners in a pale, glow.

  Under the mysterious light, Krin looked at Finleara, who had stopped humming and now stared back at him; her eyes wide with…

  What? Wonder? Confusion? But he was now so caught up in the song that none of that mattered. His entire world was now filled with the song, and the song was at one with his very soul. It flowed through him as if it were a living creature in its own self; pulsing, swaying, rolling, rising, and swelling in his soul. It sought freedom from the abysmal darkness the pair had been in for so long. It demanded release—its birth—into an unsuspecting world. So he sang on, now oblivious to their imprisonment, or the creature burrowing deep beneath them. As long as he nurtured it, as long as it thrived, all would be well with the world.

  Then, he caught the elf girl smiling wondrously at him. The vine-like tattoos crinkled at the outside contours of her eyes; beautiful lavender eyes that now glistened with a well of cheerful, yet longing tears.

  Why is she crying?

  After a few seconds, Finleara rejoined the song, no longer humming, but crooning the lullaby with a soft, melodious voice. The otherworldly glow around them blossomed into a near blinding light; surprising Krin, almost causing him to pause this most wondrous melody.

  Then he noticed the light seemed to be moving along the soil-hewn walls of the cell; writhing and wriggling in perfect rhythm. His voice never faltering as he peered closer. The walls were alive. A colony of countless, odd-looking worms, glowing bright blue in the abysmal darkness.

  Thousands upon thousands of worms poured from tiny burrows within the walls like a waterfall of ghostly light. Whatever doubts he may have had regarding the worms and their light were banished when he looked at Finleara’s face. Beaming, nearly as radiantly as the worms; she gestured for him to continue.

  With a nod of comprehension, and unexpected gratitude in his heart, he continued. Although he didn’t understand how he knew it, he just was aware that his own mother had sung the song to him often very young child.

  For the first time in his memory, he finally felt a sliver of connection to the woman who had birthed him. Now, upon rediscovering the lullaby, he realized that she had loved him beyond the words of any race or language, and in an unexpected flash of insight, had given her very life to save his. And all this information had laid dormant, locked away somewhere deep in his subconscious, until the sweet lullaby had stripped the blocked memories of their bonds. He knew he couldn't stop the refrain even if he wanted to.

  The rumble beneath his feet pulled him from his reverie. The Nerthani was still coming; its distinctive burrowing growing more frantic. The blue, glowing worms began to work their own kind of magic as the earth shifted and swirled around them. Moving along the walls a crisscross pattern, they spun gossamer threads back and forth in timing with the song. Their squirming forms seemed to dance, pirouetting around each other in a ballet of silk and light; an inexorable shimmy up the wall. Their strands wove in and out; doubling and even tripling the girth of each fiber until Krin gasped when he recognized the delicate construction that now reached to the trapdoor.

  “A ladder!” The lullaby abandoned in his excitement. He rushed over to the wall, grasped at the first silken rung, and held out the other hand to Finleara. “Let’s go!”

  An instant later, something massive exploded from the earth below, filling the cell with a cloud of dirt, and a putrid stench that burned Krin’s eyes and nose. The creature’s round, eyeless face lashed blindly around the chamber as the rest of its segmented body slithered into view. It had no hair, and its leathery skin appeared pale purple in the blue light. Krin watched in disgust as the corpulent form writhed and undulated around them. Gradually, as more of the Nerthani body emerged, the creature’s true nature began to take shape in Krin’s mind. The great goddess of the goblins—their progenitor, if Finleara could be believed—was little more than a monstrous earthworm. With a girth that could easily encompass the first story of Nicholas’s home, and who knew how long, the thing was certainly formidable in terms of sheer size…

  “But it’s an earthworm!” Krin laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. Finleara squeezed his hand tight at his outburst; her eyes silently pleading with him for silence. But it was too late. The Nerthani’s head snapped in their direction, a stream of mucous whipping through the air at them, and soaking Krin in a thick coat of fetid slime.

  “Ack! Disgusting!” Krin shouted, slingi
ng the gook off with a shake of his arms. Whether attracted to the noise or the sudden movements, the creature reeled in closer; it’s pointed snout pushing against Krin’s chest, pinning him to the wall.

  After a moment, it pulled back. A thin line at the top of its head began to slowly separate.

  “Um, what in Caesar’s name is it doing?”

  “Quiet!” Finleara hissed. “Stop talking. Stop moving. Just be quiet for a change, you dullard.”

  The top worm’s head continued to split until a gaping maw encircled its domed head. Krin peered into it, marveling at the three triangular membranes around the circumference of the mouth, as well as the rows upon rows of tiny gravel-like teeth spiraling down the creature’s gullet. Paralyzed with fear and awe, he watched as a serrated beak that was the same length as the breadth of Krin's hand from thumb to pinky. Attached to a tubular stalk, it stretched slowly from the opening, and probed the air in Kris’s direction. The beak nipped blindly at anything unlucky enough to get in its path.

  Krin pulled Finleara closer to the wall, and guided her to the silken ladder. “Climb!” he ordered. His shout drew the beak closer. The elf opened her mouth to argue, but he pushed her against the wall, forcing her to grab hold of the first rung. She pulled herself up, followed immediately by Krin. Frantically, they climbed, nearly reaching midway up to the trap door before the worm writhed completely out of its burrow, and pulled itself higher into the chamber nearly parallel to the fleeing pair.

  That’s when Krin noticed something odd about the creature. Its movements were strange, and jerky, reminding him of blind old Belgarius, who used to fumble through the streets of Myra guided solely by the noise of the teaming streets. The Nerthani’s movements were eerily similar. Krin now knew why Finleara had insisted—demanded his silence and perfect stillness.

  Just like old Belgarius, the creature was blind, using sound and vibrations to steer itself. To hunt. To feed.