The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  “Why aren’t you doing anything?” he hissed. “We could still save him!”

  She side-stepped twice, keeping herself squarely in front of the worm’s continuously swaying head. “There most certainly is,” she replied, taking yet another side-step. Her voice continued to remain calm.

  Krin remembered his first lesson about the beast. It was attracted by sound. The more noise one made, the more likely a target you would become.

  “But for now, you will need to be patient. The Horn of Abu-Sel is all we will need to save your friend, but it cannot be rushed.”

  Krin looked at the horn clutched in her hand. He wasn’t sure what a musical instrument could do to such a monster as the Nerthani, but then, he remembered the silk worms from the prison cell, and the interesting effect his own singing had on them.

  Finleara swayed back and forth, perfectly synchronized with the worm’s fluid movements. Slowly, she lifted the horn up to her lips, and for the first time, Krin was able to make out the details of the oddly-shaped instrument. A trumpet of some kind. It was long, and curved, resembling shape of an elephant tusk—only smaller. It was covered in a shiny coat of either brass or gold, with strange, cryptic and intricately carved symbols, runes, and letters; all of a language Krin couldn’t place. Along its base, a single, thin round tube jutted about the length of Krin's forearm out from the rest of the piece. Though the tube’s purpose was beyond him, he imagined it was this particular oddity that made the instrument ‘special’ for some reason.

  He tore his gaze from the horn and back to Finleara. She placed the instrument to her pursed lips, took a deep breath, and blew. With the blast of noise that no one in their right mind could ever call a note, the world around him began to swim out of control. The vertigo nearly brought him to his knees until the girl took hold of a divot at the end of the tube, and withdrew a brass rod slowly out from its base. The further out she stretched the appendage, the deeper the tone and pitch became; easing the assault on Krin’s senses as it did so. Seconds later, the fit of nausea had vanished completely, and he turned his attention back to the Nerthani.

  The great worm hissed, the menace in its voice becoming greater with each change of the horn’s tone. Its body coiled, and writhed along the ground like a slug fighting the effects of salt. Finleara, encouraged by the beast’s reaction, continued to slide the rod further out of the tube, bringing the tone to a grating, warbling cacophony that wreaked havoc on Krin’s nerves.

  Judging from the screech erupting from the worm’s throat, Krin surmised that the worm was receiving far more damage than his own nerves. He couldn't have imagined it possible for mere sound to inflict such injury. The creature’s frenzied writhing became quick, jerky movements along its entire body. Krin watched wide-eyed as the flat patch along its segmented body began to bulge and throb as the horn’s blare grew even louder. Its head swayed faster and faster as the bulge swelled to catastrophic proportions.

  “Er, what is happening?” he asked. No one responded. All eyes remained fixed on the segmented foe. Curious, he returned his own gaze, and was surprised to see the worm’s head bobbing up and down in violent spasms. Then, its face split apart, its maw stretched wide, and the contents of the Nerthani’s gullet exploded from its mouth in a putrid rush of green slime, tiny bits, and one hulking Visigoth bounty hunter. A second later, the worm teetered over, and slumped to the ground; its tail still whirling aimlessly around its body.

  “Is…is it dead?” Krin asked; his words almost a whisper.

  Ignoring the question, two of the horseman dismounted, and moved over to Ulfilas. He was covered head to toe in a greenish-brown ooze. He had sustained a few scrapes and bruises, but once they had cleared the viscous fluid from his nose and mouth, he began breathing normally again; though he remained unconscious.

  “The Nerthani is not dead,” Finleara said, stepping up beside him and appraising the still-fidgeting worm. “Just violently ill. She will recover in a few hours, I am afraid. I do not have time to ensure a more permanent solution for the beast.”

  Krin chose to let that last statement go. The elf woman was clearly blood-thirsty, and had no love for goblin kind. He was quickly beginning to wonder, in fact, whether she had love for any kind but herself. This, too, he kept to himself, and instead walked over to Ulfilas, who was slowly stirring to consciousness.

  The moment the big man’s eyes fell on Krin, he gave a weak smile. “What in Valhalla happened?”

  Krin shrugged. “You got swallowed by a big, slimy worm.” He nodded to the wriggling Nerthani behind Ulfilas, and grinned. “But apparently, you left a foul taste in her mouth, and she spat you out.”

  The bounty hunter clambered to his feet, and wiped the slime off his clothing as best he could. “Well, that was a disgusting experience, I’d rather not go through again—”

  “Who the blazes decided to use the Horn of Abu-Sel?” came a familiar grizzled voice from behind the entire company. As one, they each turned to see a battered and weary dwarf staggering through the woods in their direction.

  “Garhet!” Krin shouted, taking a few running steps toward him.

  But the little man, held up a hand to stop him, before leaning against a small tree, and relinquishing the remains of last night’s meal onto the ground at his feet. “Hammer and anvil! I hate that bloody horn!”

  “It saved your life, did it not, dwarf?” Finleara asked, her arms folded across her chest.

  He heaved again, spat, and wiped the last bits clinging to his beard off with his gauntlet. “That remains to be seen,” he growled. “And don’t think I don’t know that you enjoyed that a little too much.”

  “Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Krin asked. “Why are both Garhet and the worm sick?”

  Ignoring the question, Finleara moved to help one of her men assist Ulfilas, still too weak and injured to do so on his own, onto one of the horses. One of the guardsmen then leapt up into the saddle in front of him.

  “It is the Horn of Abu-Sel. He was the Magi that crafted it centuries ago, when they first arrived in Thana Pel.” Garhet, still wiping at his face and beard, stumbled up to Krin, and continued. “Before the Keep was built, the Magi were rather vulnerable. The go’hoblidin kept sacking their encampment on a fairly regular basis.” The dwarf moved to the horse on which Ulfilas sat, and hoisted himself up behind the giant without assistance. “Abu-Sel began studying the goblins. Studying all the Thana kindred.”

  “Thana kindred?”

  “Family of the Earth,” Finleara explained. “Literally.”

  Then it struck him. He remembered something Garhet had told them on their journey to Andriaki. The northmen claimed the dwarves came from the worms of the ground. Garhet had denied it, of course, but the statement was certainly true of the goblins.

  Finleara smiled. “Ah, you begin to understand, do you not? The goblins and the dwarves are distant cousins. Goblins are born from the eggs of the Nerthani. Dwarves…well, the dwarfwives are something you would just have to see in order to believe.”

  One of the Magi Guards walked his horse over to the girl, and handed her the reigns.

  “Watch your tongue, Elf, when speaking of the dwarfwives.” Garhet gave her a dark glare, before turning his attention back to Krin. “Anyway, this Abu-Sel soon discovered that certain sounds could make Thana-kind physically ill. He designed his blasted horn with that in mind.” He paused, watching Finleara climb up onto her own steed. “Long story short, I was up to my beard braids in goblins, when all of a sudden, I heard that troll-song racket of the horn, and every ugly one of them dropped to the ground, writhing with convulsions. Since dwarves and goblins are only distantly related, the effect wasn’t nearly as bad on me, so I hobbled the heck out there, and made my way to you.”

  He gestured for Krin to approach and the boy complied without question. “Besides, I had to be sure to give this back to you.” Smiling, he unfastened the scabbard housing Glalbrirer from around his shoulder, and handed it down to Krin
. The boy accepted it, and returned it to his own belt.

  “Wait.” Finleara's voice was unsteady for the first time since escaping their cell. “What is that?”

  “What is what, Cap’n?” Garhet asked with just a hint of amusement in his own voice, as he clambered onto the saddle of his own horse.

  “The sword.” Her eyes flashed down to Krin. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Aye,” the dwarf said. “It is the reason we’ve come to see your father.” He looked down at Krin. “Now lad, climb up behind the Elf Captain. We need to be well out of this forest before the sun climbs too high.”

  To Krin’s surprise, Finleara offered no argument. Instead, she reached down her hand, and pulled him up onto the saddle. “You mean to say that he’s…”

  “Aye,” Garhet replied with a nod.

  “What?” Krin asked. “What are you two talking about? Why won’t you just tell me what’s so special about me and my sword?”

  Finleara turned around to face him. The sad, almost apologetic look in her eyes unsettled him more than he would have liked.

  “Because it is not our place to do so. Only Lord Calibus, my father, can do that.” She glanced over at the dwarf. “And only after he verifies your claims.”

  The dwarf laughed as he tossed a piece of rock candy into his mouth, and chomped down. “Ain’t my claims lady. They're Nicholas’.”

  At the mention of the bishop’s name, she tensed. Turning to the two dismounted riders, she instructed them to return to Madagus Keep as soon as they were able. Without another word, she turned her steed east, and spurred it into motion. Krin turned to see Garhet following close behind, and wondered just how far out of his depths he had managed to get himself.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Pelethor Road

  Thana Pel

  After leaving the forest, the companions returned to Ra’ethana Pass, and swiftly made their way to the Pelethor Road; the rest of the journey passing without incident. Krin marveled at the rich variety of terrain that comprised the valley of Thana Pel with each rhythmic hoofbeat.

  Since stepping foot in Germania, he had been running for either his freedom, or his life, leaving him little opportunity to truly appreciate the mind-boggling differences between this land and his own. Where Lycia had been dry and arid, Thana Pel was lush and green. Trees of all kind—especially the various kinds of firs and evergreens seemed to carpet the landscape as far as the eye could see. Even with a light dusting of snow, the green still showed through. They were now deep into November—possibly even December by now—yet even the moss-like grass blanketing the ground to either side of the road still shone with rich, emerald brilliance.

  By midday, they had come upon a vast, blue-green lake to the south. One of the Magi Guard told Krin the lake was known as Nerna Sair’n, so named for the ‘Swimming Dragon’ that was said to slumber within its immeasurable depths. An hour and a half later, they passed an old stone bridge and were immediately greeted by the sight of another lake, Mindere, which was said to be inhabited by yet another race of Dhuna—water nymphs, that inexplicably had not been taken during the Great Divide. The guardsman informed Krin that although the local villagers of the nearby town of Stindoln frequently fished the lake without incident, the waters themselves considered very dangerous for the uninitiated. The nymphs—known as the Mindera—took great pleasure in leading unwary travelers to watery graves. As long as Krin and his company stayed well clear of the lake’s shores, they would be left in peace. Uncertain as to whether the soldier had been telling tall tales, Krin glanced over at Garhet, who nodded grimly in assurance that the story was, in fact, true.

  By mid-afternoon, the group had made their way through Stindoln, crossed yet another bridge to the east of the town. Then as the sun began to descend behind them, Krin caught his first glimpse of the immense, jagged wall of a plateau to the northeast of them.

  “Atop that plateau,” Garhet said in an almost reverent whisper, “is the fortress of the Magi, Madagus Keep.”

  Krin eyed the vertical climb to the top, and shuddered. Even though it was still a good distance away, he could see the pock-marked stone surface—similar to a massive sheet of lava rock—providing hand and footholds perfect for climbing. But the very thought of making such an arduous climb made Krin consider turning back to take his chances with General Alexandrius. “How the heck are we supposed to get up there? It’d take us days to climb that.”

  “Aye,” Garhet said with a smile. “Good thing we know a short cut, eh?”

  The road they traveled had been well maintained, enabling them to maintain a brisk pace. The horses seemed to know every bump and pothole along the path…so much so, that their ride was smooth enough to lull Krin to sleep. When he awoke, the sun had fully set, and he felt his horse coming to a stop.

  The silver light of the moon shone through a handful of clouds in the sky above. Shaking away his grogginess, Krin glanced around until he spotted a perfectly manicured grove of trees—of a variety he had never seen before. The trees stretched out, their branches intertwining like the locked fingers of children in the middle of some street game, forming a large circle on a patch of emerald grass. The tree’s bark was smooth, and as white as Krin’s own head of hair. The leaves—and they were numerous despite the season and the brisk chill in the air—were equally as white, though flecked with pinpricks of red.

  A handful of Finleara’s soldiers had already dismounted, and busied themselves by lighting a series of torches encircling the strange trees.

  “The Grove,” Garhet said, noticing Krin’s admiration. Ulfilas still hung unconscious, face down across the horse’s back, in front of the dwarf. His barreled chest heaved up and down with each, haggard breath he took. “The trees are called Pragadhunens, and, as far as I know, they only exist in this very spot.”

  “Pragadhunens? As in the Dhuna?”

  The dwarf nodded with a smile. “Exactly. Means Sentinels of the Air…or, more literally, perhaps, Sentinels of the Spirits. Either way, it’s a reference to all of Dhuna-kind, and legend has it, the trees have been here since before the Great Divide.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Krin said, reluctant to pull his eyes away.

  “It should be.” It was the first time Finleara, still seated in front of him, had spoken since Ra’ethana Pass. “The Pragadhunen Grove was cultivated by our people, Krin—”

  “For the millionth time, I’m not an elf! Dark or otherwise.”

  Finleara shot Garhet an exasperated glare, then shrugged with a sigh. “Very well. The elves had split into two major clans before the Grove was established. The Dhuna’om—the Light Elves—and our…my people…had warred against each other for many hundreds of years. Then, inexplicably, the Dhuna’om planted the Grove. They cultivated it, and nurtured it. When the time was right—when it was clear that only the destruction of both clans could possibly come from more fighting—they shared the Grove with us as a peace offering.

  “Not long after that, the Dhuna’om disappeared from the Thanaheim. No one knows for sure where they went, but it is believed the Grove was intended to help guide us, their darker brethren, to a more enlightened path. I don't think it worked exactly how they intended, but one thing is certain…the Grove became a place of refuge. It also has the power to heal. That's why we are stopping, before continuing on to the Keep.”

  Krin looked over at Ulfilas. The Nerthani’s slimy digestive enzymes had dried, covering the large man in a thick, brittle film. All his cuts and scrapes, inflicted by those giant cats Garhet had told him about during their journey, were already festering; green ooze bubbled up from some of them, and Krin could only imagine the havoc that infection was creating inside the man.

  Krin clambered down from his mount, and walked over to the Garhet’s horse. With a single nod from Finleara, four of the horsemen joined him, and together they pulled Ulfilas off of his mount, then carried to the center of the circle of Pragadhunen trees.

  “Now what?” Krin asked G
arhet.

  “Now, we let her do her elf-thing.” The dwarf turned to walk out of the Grove, gesturing for Krin to follow. “This place is for elf magick only. Its power comes from the Dhuna alone, even trapped as they are in Wyndter. Dwarves, goblins, and humans aren’t exactly welcome here, and the Grove might not like it if we’re lurking too close.” He blushed as he looked at Krin. “Even with your, um, heritage.”

  Krin stewed on his words as they strode away, allowing Finleara as much space as they felt comfortable, without losing sight of the proceedings. Finding a fallen log, they sat down on it, and watched as the elf girl lowered herself onto her knees next to Ulfilas. Then she unrolled a leather pouch on the ground. Next she lifted a single feather quill and a bottle of ink from the pouch, and proceeded to write on the giant’s exposed skin in an alien script.

  Garhet explained to Krin that the markings were the tale of Ulfilas’ adventures leading up to his injuries. Once she had completely written the story, she bid one of her men retrieve a pail of water.

  “What is she doing now?” The young man asked as she began to carefully wash over portions of writing. The dwarf explained she was cleansing away the grievous portions that had resulted in injury. The idea was that when the ritual was complete, the adventures and heroic acts would remain in the injured person’s life, but it would be as if the wounds had never been inflicted.

  “Will it work?”

  “Oh, aye,” Garhet said with a nod. “The Grove truly is an amazing place. Though, naturally, it can’t heal every injury, I’ve seen it work wonders on far worse than what our Visigoth friend has endured. He’ll be fine.”

  The two then sat in silence as they watched the Magi Guard patrol the Grove’s perimeter, keeping watch on their captain as she ministered to the ailing bounty hunter. After several long moments, Krin spoke once again.

  “So would the Grove have…um…?” The question faltered as he turned his attention to the strange script etched across the blade of his sword.