The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  Even Finleara, who had known of his ability and had prohibited him from using it, seemed to be in utter shock. Granted, her knit eyebrows, and scowling frown demonstrated she was slightly less surprised than the others.

  Entirely uncomfortable with the silence, he cleared his throat.

  “My name is Krin.” At least he was up to a complete sentence instead of monosyllabic questions. His hand held a slight tremor, he reached into the pack slung over his shoulder and withdrew Nicholas’ letter.

  “I think, um, I’m supposed to give someone this.” He held it high enough for them all to see.

  A single flake of snow wafted down from the vaulted ceiling, landing conspiratorially at Krin’s feet.

  “D-did he just…?” The question caught in one of the Magi’s throat.

  “I believe he did,” said another; a tall, well-built man with a neatly trimmed beard that barely covered his pock-marked face.

  “But he just rifted,” said the first; the only one in the group wearing a striking white turban. Krin thought he detected the slightest trace of a lisp in the man’s speech.

  “And he did so without…without…”

  “Without Rifting Stones,” said the man in the center of the table, who had been arguing the fiercest with Reganus just moments before. ‘I would say, my dear Quinten, that we have just witnessed something truly remarkable here today.” He turned to Krin, and graced him with a nod of salutation.

  “Welcome, young Krin. My name is Calibus, and I am most humbly pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Krin returned the nod, then extended his arm once more, shaking the paper he had clutched in his hand. “Nice to meet you, but I really do think I’m supposed to give you this.”

  Calibus smiled, then gestured to one of the guards, who moved cautiously to the stranger, and retrieved the letter. Once secured, the soldier handed it over to the Magus Prime, then returned to his original defensive posture; spear pointed directly at Krin’s chest.

  For his part, Calibus unfolded the note, scanned it, then casually handed it over to Reganus, who in turn passed it to the next man, and so on.

  “So, Krin, before we get started…” Calibus glanced over to Finleara. “I hear I owe you a debt of gratitude for having a hand in saving my daughter from the goblins.”

  Krin thought he could hear the faintest hint of reproof in the words, but he wasn't sure whether it was directed at him or the Captain of the Guard. Any confusion he had harbored quickly dissipated as the Magus Prime continued. “The dear girl has been a handful all her life. I’ve tried so hard to instill in her the need for caution when approaching one of their villages, but she’ll have none of it. The only good goblin in her estimation, is a decapitated one…and this time, her philosophy would have cost her her life, if you hadn’t come along.”

  Finleara rolled her eyes at the backhanded reprimand, then fixed her stare on Krin. Her meaning was obvious: encourage him at your own peril.

  He cocked his head to one side, contemplating how he wanted to play this. On the one hand, Finleara was one of the scariest people he had ever met. Despite her slender, feminine frame, large haunting eyes, and handsome smile—when the rare mood struck her anyway—she was every bit a warrior as any Roman Krin had ever met. More so, he suspected, in many cases. Yet, there was, he had to admit, her very appealing feminine frame, large lovely eyes, and heart-stopping smile—when the rare mood struck her—that he had to consider. He hadn’t yet decided whether she made him want to run for his life, or woo her to the ends of the earth. At this moment, however, he thought it best to play the game right down the middle.

  “Actually sir, I only fumbled upon her by chance, having been caught myself.” He gave her the slyest of winks, then continued. “As a matter of fact, she was rather instrumental in assisting with our escape.”

  “Assisting?” Finleara shot toward him, grabbing him by his cloak, and yanking him up on his toes. “Assisting! Why you arrogant little—”

  “Finleara.” Calibus didn’t raise his voice, but all who heard it were cowed into silence by the sheer power behind the inferred rebuke. “That’s no way to treat a guest of the House of the Magi.”

  “But…”

  “Let him go, daughter.”

  She did as she was told. Immediately dropping her arms to her sides. She stepped back and kept her eyes fixed on Krin, who casually straightened out his cloak and tipped his head in the girl’s direction as he tried to project an unruffled appearance,

  “My apologies, Ms. Finleara, if I upset you.” He really wasn’t. He enjoyed the heat of her gaze. The proximity of her body so close to his. There was, he had to admit, an inexplicable draw to the warrior-female who simultaneously elicited an irritating itch down his spine that he just couldn’t scratch.

  “I only meant to say that it was you who led us out of the worm’s burrow after Garhetnor Bliix enticed it to the surface with the goblin drums. I, myself, had little to do with the escape at all; and more than likely hindered it by trusting my three imp friends.”

  Finleara’s eyes widened the moment the word ‘imp’ fell from his lips, followed by a very subtle, but adamant shake of her head.

  “Imps?” shouted Reganus. “The boy has imps? Why wasn’t this in your report, Girl? Not only does our guest demonstrate rifting powers beyond those ever seen, he commands imps too?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘commanding’,” Krin interjected.

  “Silence, Boy!” Reganus nearly shaking with contempt in his seat. “For the moment, you may be welcome in the halls of Madagus Keep—but I shan't remind everyone that you entered these council chambers without invitation. Until we are certain of the veracity of your claims, you will mind your—”

  The door to the chamber suddenly burst open, interrupting the enraged magus. A hush fell throughout the room. Krin turned to see a battered and bloodied dwarf with a long, gray beard stumble into the room, followed immediately by Garhet and three of the Magi Guard. The newcomer collapsed to the floor and Garhet rushed to his side. Lifting him off the ground, he guided him to the center of the chamber. Surprised, his good eye locked onto Krin, for the briefest second, then he turned back to the injured dwarf.

  “Can you stand, m’lord?” Garhet asked the dwarf.

  The older dwarf nodded, stood as straight as he could, then looked at the Magi Council. “My lords,” he said, then glancing at Finleara, “and Lady, many of you know me. My name is Behk’n Lorent. I’m the chieftain of the Ya’Tana clan that mine the thana’maev fields near Sair’n Nanlech.” He paused until each of the Council acknowledged him with a nod. “It’s the Romans, Lords. They somehow managed to gather in mass at the southwestern tip of the Lear’ana Forest, and have attacked our mines.”

  “This isn’t the first time the Romans have entered Thana Pel, Lord Behk’n,” Calibus stated. “Nor is it the first instance of warfare with the dwarves, and you’ve never asked of our assistance before. I’m not following how this incident is any different from the other encounters.”

  Beck coughed, a dark, red fluid spilled from his lips. He would have stumbled forward had Garhet not grabbed him in time. “Because, Lord Calibus, it is our belief that your assurance of the death of the rogue magus, Sair’n Kryl, at the Battle of Thana Mog’hem was either a gross exaggeration, or an outright lie; and that the monstrous cad has, in fact, made an alliance with these same Romans.”

  It was as though the Council Chamber itself gasped at the declaration. Krin watched as each of the Magi went with rigid, attempted to adjust themselves to give the appearance of relaxed calm, then gave up altogether to collectively freeze with apprehension. It was several long moments before anyone composed themselves enough to trust their own voice. In the end, it was, to no surprise to Krin, the boisterous and bitter Reganus who voiced the question they all were wondering.

  “A-and what makes you believe this, Lord Behk’n?”

  The dwarf scowled, looking up at the Council with utter contempt.
r />   “Because he, himself, led the Roman assault on our mines not a fortnight ago.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “All these people know how to do is talk!” Ulfilas growled as he made another lap around the magnificently ancient tree that adorned the center of the garden. He had been pacing for nearly two hours, and was making Krin dizzy with his incessant moving—not to mention his complaining. “It’s been almost thirteen hours since that runt king arrived at the Keep, for the gods’ sake! What’s there to discuss? Some villain has sided with the Romans, and attacked a settlement within the Magi’s protectorate. True warriors would have already set out to give them some payback.”

  Krin didn’t exactly disagree. He wasn’t sure why the Magi were being so cautious about everything. Why they feared this…Sair’n Kryl…so much, but he had seen their faces at the mention of his name. Watched their eyes widen at the news. He was certain that if he had laid a finger on each man’s pulse, it would have been pounding like the thunderous hoofbeats of a hundred wild horses. Garhet, of course, had refused to explain. He recalled that the dwarf had let that name slip once or twice during their journey to Germania, but never went into much detail.

  More unsettling was that this news completely overshadowed his own appearance in Thana Pel. Before Behk’n Lorent’s arrival at Madagus Keep, it seemed that all fears and suspicions were directed at him. Then, a dwarf clan chief arrives with news of Roman raids, and Krin and his friends are immediately expelled from the chamber.

  A stern warning was given that rifting back in again was forbidden—and they were unceremoniously shown to their rooms for some much needed sleep, a bath, and some clean clothes.

  “They know what they’re doin’,” Garhet replied to the giant’s complaints for the hundredth time, Each time, Krin grew increasingly uncertain as to whether the little man actually believed what he was saying. “It’s a complicated issue. But the Magi are great men. Learned men. They ain’t goin’ to make any rash decisions.”

  After a good sleep that lasted through most of the next day, and some breakfast—although, Krin figured technically, it was supper—they had been ushered into the inner most courtyard of the Keep; a lush garden of some of the most amazing trees, shrubbery, and flowers in full bloom Krin had ever seen. He found this to be all the more striking due the frigid season outside the Keep’s walls. Ash, oak, maple, and lazy weeping willows rose into the air, blocking out portions of the starlit sky above. Lilies, dandelions, tulips, and roses all flourished throughout the courtyard; carefully manicured to create vivid spirals of color within both the light of the moon, and the torches that lined the perimeter of the garden.

  An ancient tree—according to Garhet, whose name had been lost to the ages, was the same kind of wood used to build the famous ark of Noah—adorned the center of the garden. Its bright, lavender-colored blossoms were the exact hue as Krin’s eyes. Though the courtyard was open to the sky above and presumably the same elements as outside the walls, the air was balmy and Spring-like. Given that the sun had set hours before, the garden was inexplicably alive with the buzz of insects, butterflies, and hummingbirds of all kinds.

  Krin now sat next to Garhet on a marble bench as Ulfilas continued to pace.

  “What I don’t get, is why the Magi treated me the way they did,” Krin said. Disappointment laced his words. “Nicholas’ letter never mentioned that kind of reception. I think that Reganus guy wanted to string me up by my toes, and let the buzzards deal with me.”

  “Reganus is a good man,” Garhet explained. “He’s just a bit…um, zealous at times. Doggedly protective of the order, and thus, a touch abrasive to newcomers.”

  “But isn’t Nicholas part of the Order? Shouldn’t his word mean something to them?”

  “Nicholas, in case you have forgotten, is in prison. I’m not sure what the Magi think of that.” He looked at Krin, smiled, and shook his head. “Then, you had to go and do a bone-headed thing like rifting smack dab into their secret meeting.”

  “I’ve explained that. It was an accident. I was only trying to…”

  “Practice, I know. But lad, think what that must have looked like to them!” Garhet rubbed his face then chuckled. “I suppose I never really explained the normal ‘rules’ about rifting to you.”

  “Agh! More talking!” Ulfilas threw up his hands. “Will it never end?”

  Garhet glared at the big man, held up a finger to his lips, then turned back to Krin. “Okay. Rifting.” The dwarf shifted in his seat, pulling at the hem of his mail coat nervously as he attempted to get comfortable. “Yeah, it goes back to the whole dark elf thing. Or more precisely, the half elf thing.”

  “What do elves have to do with it?”

  “Well, actually, nothing at all. It’s the halfers that matter. Only the half-blood elves have the ability to rift.”

  The dwarf let the information sink in. After a moment, Krin opened his mouth, but Garhet clamped his hand down over it.

  “Before you say anything, lad, let me finished. It’s important.” He waited for Krin to nod in understanding, then he continued. “You see, when the world was divided—the Ge’n Pel, the Great Divide—the world of the Earth was forever separated from the world of the Air. According to the Magi, both worlds co-exist in the same space. The Dhuna are, for all intents and purposes, here among us now. Only, for the most part, they’re not aware of us because of the Divide, and vice versa.”

  “Like shadows often occupy the same space as the caster?”

  The dwarf tilted his head, pondering the comparison for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, I suppose. But in our world, because the Dhuna are of the Air, their presence can more often be seen. Ghosts, for instance. The subtle trickery of faerie creatures. Somehow, the Ge’n Pel caused the two worlds to simply phase slightly apart from each other. We feel sometimes that we can almost touch, but never truly can.”

  “Okay,” Krin said with a shrug. “Still not following. What’s this got to do with whether I’m an elf or not?”

  “Half elf,” Ulfilas piped in, moving over to the bench. “You really are pretty dense, aren’t ya, boy? I’m the one the Romans label a barbarian, yet it’s as plain to me as that silver-white fuzz on your chinny-chin-chin.”

  Krin glared up at the giant. “Well? Care to enlighten me then, Ulf?”

  “Be glad to, if it’ll shut you two up.” Ulfilas grinned at Garhet, but didn’t wait for his permission to continue. “Two worlds, forever split apart. A half-elf, half-human, a person made up of both worlds. Can’t really separate both natures, so somehow, that person has to sorta be part of both worlds too.”

  “I can’t believe it, but the big troll’s on the right path,” Garhet said. “Because you are a being of both Thanaheim and the Dhunareme, you’re able to move in between worlds at will. Your apparent movement from one place in our world to another, isn’t what the Greeks might have called tele-portation. You’re actually stepping into Wyndter, then entering back into our world in a different place.”

  “Like what happened to me when I fell from Nicholas’ fume chute,” Krin said, finally starting to understand. “When I found myself falling hundreds of feet in that weird snow-covered land.”

  “Precisely. You weren’t in the Thanaheim then. You were in Wyndter.”

  “But why haven’t I noticed it before? Why haven’t I stepped into Wyndter and stayed there?”

  The dwarf shook his head with a shrug. “No idea. But then, no other rifter has ever been able to do what you can do. That’s what has the Magi all spooked by you.”

  “What do you mean? I rift. If there are others…what’s so strange about me?”

  “Yeah, I’m kind of wondering the same thing,” said Ulfilas, who was now cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger.

  “Well, as you can imagine, there’s not many rifters to begin with. Kind of hard to produce a half-human, half-elf when the two worlds are divided by some unseen schism.” Garhet nodded toward the main tower of the Keep. “Far as
I know, you and Finleara are the only two living half-breeds in the world today. There have been a handful of others through the centuries, but you two are the only ones we know of at present. And only once, in the meticulous histories that the Magi have collected through centuries, has there ever been mention of a rifter capable of entering one world or the other at any point he chooses.”

  Krin stared blankly at his friend.

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud. Do I have to explain everything to ye, lad?” Garhet stood from the bench, wheeled around on his pupil. “You remember that strange stone circle near the Grove?”

  “The monolith?”

  “Precisely. It’s called Kair’n Del, and it’s one of about twelve scattered here and there in Thana Pel. There are many more scattered over the face of the entire earth. Some are well known. Others are hidden and lost through the ages. But they all have one thing in common. They all seem contain large slab-like stones called Rifting Stones that are… let me make sure I get this exactly how Calibus explained it to me…‘dimensional weak points between the two worlds.’ Rifters like Finleara use these Stones to move between worlds. You, on the other hand, don’t seem to need them, and that has the potential of scarin’ even the most level-headed of magus, I’d say.”

  Krin remained seated, trying to fully process what he had just been told. Ulfilas resumed his incessant pacing through the garden. It was a lot to take in. He couldn't seem to completely grasp the idea that his father was, in fact, a creature of the Fae; let alone that he had a talent shared by possibly only one other person on earth.

  “I still don’t get why it’s that big a deal,” he finally said. “So I can rift at will? So what? You said so yourself the strange bearded man that saved you after Ulf tossed you in the ocean could do the exact same thing.”

  “Hey, I was wonderin’ how you managed to survive that!” Ulfilas said. When the two others cast annoyed glares at him, he turned away, and resumed his pacing.