The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  “…so with that, I say we return to the matter at hand, and figure out a way for Krin and my daughter to make it to Santhelion before the others,” Calibus concluded his diatribe. Ulfilas was right. The Magi do love to talk. “Any suggestions?”

  No one spoke up. Nearly every eye seemed to gravitate toward the floor as if the answer to their dilemma would be revealed from somewhere within the grout, or cracks in the stone. Every eye except for Nicholas’. He was beaming from ear to ear; mirth dancing in his eyes as he stared at Krin. The old man was covering his mouth conspiratorially as if not wanting to give the punchline away too soon, but Krin noticed it even though no one else did.

  “What?” Krin asked. Everyone turned to him, then followed his line of sight over to Nicholas. “What’s so funny?”

  The old man chuckled quietly, which rumbled out into a full blown guffaw. “Oh, it’s just funny how our Lord works, that’s all.”

  “Niklaus, do you have an idea you’d like to share?” Calibus didn’t seem as amused by the bishop’s coyness either.

  “My boy, I have just one question for you,” Nicholas said to Krin, pointing at his waistcoat. “What have you got there? In your pocket?”

  “Huh?” The question confused him. The forest green waistcoat, just like his trousers, boots, and cloak, had all been given to him by the Magi upon his recuperation. He had only worn it for that day, and hardly had time enough to slip anything into the pock…Wait, he thought, reaching into the pocket, and feeling the small round object within. “You mean this? It’s just a little bell I found. Don’t know why I picked it up, but it was lying loose on the ground, so I just did.” A sudden terrifying thought struck him, and he glanced over Calibus, holding the tiny bell in between his thumb and index finger. “I swear! I didn’t intend to steal it. It was just lying there. I promise.”

  The Magus Prime’s stern face, glanced at the orb in Krin’s hand, then down at his feet for several long seconds. When he raised his head, he too, was beaming as bright, and as excited as the bishop. “Haha! Why Krin, dear boy! That’s it! You have found the means to travel to Santhelion without the aid of rifting.”

  “Um, am I missing something?” Krin asked.

  “I was about to ask the same question,” Garhet said.

  Everyone stared at the tiny golden sphere in the boy’s hand, and as if sharing a single, simultaneous thought, all cocked their heads in confusion. This, of course, sent the two magi into a frenzy of laughter, which refused to be silenced for several minutes. Finally, after forcing himself to a more sober demeanor, Calibus pointed down at the rug on which Krin stood.

  “The irony, is truly remarkable,” he said. “Two weeks ago, you and your friends were nearly killed by a trio of assassin jinn. Today, four bound jinn will lead us to the victory we so desperately need.”

  Still completely bewildered, Krin glanced down where the Magus Prime was pointing, and shrugged. “I still don’t get it. It’s just an old beaten up carpet.” It looked exactly like the one he had seen next to the fountain inside the Vault, but if it was, he had no idea why the Magi would have bothered to tote it all the way down to this secluded chapel for the meeting. It made no sense. “What does it have to do with the jinn? Heck, what does it have to do with anything?”

  Nicholas, in between giggles, gestured at Krin for silence. “The bell, my boy. Grip the bell tight in your hand.” When he saw that Krin had complied, he continued. “Now simply feel ‘up’. Don’t think it. Don’t ponder the word. Feel as though you are going up, and see what happens.”

  “I don’t see what good this will do. It’s just a…”

  “Do it, boy.” He was no longer laughing.

  Krin knew better than to argue with the old man's tone and did as he was told. Tightening his grip on the sphere, he concentrated on the word ‘up’. Considered its meaning. Its definition. The geometrical implications that the term instilled in him. Then, he waited. And waited. And…

  “Nothing’s happening,” he said, throwing his hands up in irritation. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Ah, but you weren’t feeling ‘up’, were you, lad? You were merely concentrating on the word itself.” Nicholas walked around the table, placed a patient hand on his shoulder, and looked the boy in the eye. “On a purely intellectual level. I know that look, Krin. It’s the same one you use when I give you an algebraic formula to solve. Forget about facts. Forget definitions. Simply feel.”

  “But I…”

  “Feel it, lad. The sensation of going up. The sense of vertigo. A light breeze rushing past you as you ascend.”

  Krin closed his eyes once more, gripped the bell, and felt Nicholas step slowly away from him.

  “Up, Krin. Imagine how the falcon must feel as she glides between the clouds. Or the smoke from a campfire, its billowing tendrils swirling along the currents of the wind. Picture the paper lanterns the Oriental merchants often brought to the bazaar…how when lit, they would slowly rise into the air, blazing up the night sky.”

  Krin began to picture all these things and more. Presently, he felt a slight vibration against the sole of his foot, but nothing else. His eyes still closed, he continued the visualization exercise, uncertain of what would happen if he succeeded. After several more moments, he spoke.

  “I don’t think whatever is supposed to happen, is going to happen.” His eyes still clenched tight, adding to his sense of foolishness. “This is…ow!” Something slammed against his skull. Opening his eyes, he looked up, and immediately ducked down at the sight of the chapel ceiling just inches from his head.

  “Holy…” He looked around. He was still standing on the five foot by ten piece of carpet, its golden threads within the trim now gleaming like stars in the dim lighting. The carpet itself was nearly as high as Garhet’s head, hovering of its own accord in midair.

  “What the heck is happening here? Get me down! Get me down!”

  All eyes were fixed on him. A few jaws hung open in disbelief. A new fit of laughter burst forth from Nicholas, and he slapped his knees with merry excitement.

  “All you have to do, Krin, is feel ‘down’…just like you felt ‘up’.” Calibus also smiled. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “Or it’s only as high as the dinner table over there,” Garhet teased. “Ye could always just jump off the blasted thing.”

  Krin glared at his friend, then squeezed the bell tight in his hand, and concentrated on descending. Within seconds, he felt the ground firm beneath his feet, and leapt off the rug as if it were made of hot coals.

  “What is that thing?” His eyes wide as he pointed down at the carpet.

  The two magi composed themselves, then Nicholas explained. “That, my boy, is a flying carpet. A very rare artifact, and the perfect solution to our little problem, I might add.” The old man glanced up at the ceiling, and mouthed a silent, “Thank you, Lord.”

  “I could have guessed that,” Krin growled. “What I want to know is…is…” He glanced at the rug; the warm glow of the golden threads beginning to dissipate.

  He found himself unable to voice what exactly he wanted explained. Nicholas was right. If this thing could fly—higher than Garhet's head that is—then it was the answer to their dilemma. They could easily make it Santhelion in record time by traveling by air. However the more he pondered how incredible the idea was, the more he needed an explanation of precisely how it all worked. If he was going to trust this fraying piece of fabric to transport Finleara and him into the very heart of the land of monsters, Romans, and mad wizards, he certainly wanted to know his faith was well-placed. “How the blazes does it work?"

  PART III

  SILENT NIGHT

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Wahoo!” Krin shouted as the carpet banked to his right, sweeping past a tall pine jutting up from the dense foliage below. He couldn’t remember a time he had felt more exhilarated. The wind rushed past his face, sweeping the red hood of his cloak back in violent gusts. The air would have seemed frigid, had he
not already grown accustomed to the icy cold of Wyndter from whenever he rifted. The thick leather armor he had been given also helped to block out the biting wind. But he paid none of it any attention as the carpet sailed high above the tree tops, occasionally grazing the canopies.

  He glanced back, and smiled. Finleara wrapped her arms around him, clutching tight and keeping her eyes squeezed shut. The fierce warrior, elf-maiden had her limitations, apparently flying in the air well above the trees, at breakneck speeds was close to the breaking point.

  Taking her apprehensions into consideration, he slackened his grip on the bell, and willed the carpet to slow. The entire process was unbelievable, yet here he was, flying as free as an eagle through the sky. And all thanks to the four jinn irrevocably bound within the golden threads along the trim of the carpet.

  After the rest of the company had stumbled out of the old chapel to prepare for the coming days, Nicholas had explained the process to him. The old man had carefully rolled the carpet up, and cradled it as if it were a child in his arms, before ushering him back to the garden vista in the center of the Keep.

  “Legends say,” he had begun, “that wise King Solomon had a very special knack for summoning, binding, and controlling all manner of creature—including the jinn.” He had gone on to tell the story of how four mischievous jinn had begun to torment a small little town north of Jerusalem. The rabbis and village fathers had come to the great king bearing gifts of all kinds, pleading with him to do something about the problem. Feeling for the plight of his people, he had traveled to the town at once, and confronted the creatures.

  “Story says, they mocked and ridiculed him,” Nicholas said. “Not only that, they had begun to blaspheme Jehovah himself. Now, Solomon knew The Lord was quite capable of handling His own affairs…of defending His own honor when it came to vile spirits that mocked him. But his anger, and probably a touch of pride, got the better of him. He used magicks taught him by some of his heathen brides to snare the jinn, then bind them to a special ring.”

  The old man went on to explain that Solomon would summon the jinn from his ring whenever he had need, and put them to good use. “They helped build some of the most magnificent buildings within the land—although he refused to allow their hands to touch the Temple of the Lord,” he said. “They went to battle with him. They were used as spies, and provided much needed information on rivals. To Solomon, these cursed creatures were serving penance for their sins, while assuring the safety, and infrastructure of the holy city.

  “Then, one of Solomon’s illegitimate sons of one of his thousand concubines, one intent on acquiring power and status, stole the ring from his father. He released the jinn in return for the keys to the kingdom.”

  Nicholas explained that the jinn ended up tricking the young man, and viciously murdering him for his insolence. Solomon, in his righteous rage, recaptured them, bound them once more to the ring. He had it melted down, then had the smelted gold spun into a fine thread. Next it was woven into an old carpet that had been collecting dust in his fabled treasure room under the Temple, and guarded by twelve golems made of clay.

  “So how does the bell fit into all this,” Krin had asked his adopted father.

  The old man had smiled at him, and patted him on the back. “Solomon was angry, but not foolish. To ensure the same thing would not happen again—someone lusting for power could never release the jinn from their prison, he extracted the creatures’ wills, and cast them into a small bell, which he kept on his person at all times.”

  “But I still don’t understand how it works. How does holding the bell control the carpet?”

  “Because, dear boy,” Nicholas had said. “By squeezing it in the palm of your hand, you are crushing the jinn’s collective will, and imposing your own over it. They can never be released, but they can certainly still affect the environment around them. Since they are creatures of fire, they naturally gravitate upward; the way all heat does. But with the bell clutched tight in your hand, you exert your own will, so they have no choice but to follow your commands.” The old man chuckled. “I suspect they are also drawn to the bell itself. That’s why they followed you down to the chapel after you pocketed it. Which is a fortunate turn of providence, I must say.”

  After that, Krin and Finleara had met secretly with Calibus and Nicholas, and were sent on their way without the other Magi’s knowledge. Their fear being that if Sair’n Kryl truly was one of the Council, informing the others of their mission would have tipped their hand. Instead, the Magus Prime had set the others to work on preparing for their own march to Sair’n Nanlech, to stop the excavation, and free Behk’n Lorent’s dwarf clan.

  There had been some consternation, however, when it was discovered that Magus Reganus was nowhere to be found within the Keep. He seemed to have just disappeared, which had led to hushed whispers of suspicion from the other council members, until Calibus put a stop to it. He had assigned four guards to remain behind to investigate the disappearance. Once the guards had exhausted their inquiries, they were to rendezvous with the others as soon as possible.

  Now, less than an hour into the trip, Krin watched the rhythmic sway of hundreds of blazing torches as the Magi army marched southward, slowly making their way around Mindere Lake, toward the fishing village of Stindoln. Krin knew the plan was to speak with the town’s elders and recruit as many able-bodied men as possible for the battle ahead. Calibus hadn’t been optimistic, since most of the town’s children recently went missing, without a trace. This left most of the citizens in a state of mourning and fear. But he felt it was a necessary stop—one that would bolster their numbers against the overwhelming odds which they faced.

  Unconsciously, Krin found himself praying for their success. He knew they were going to need as much help as they could get.

  “Could you please slow down?” Finleara yelled over the wind, tearing him from his thoughts.

  Perched nearly on the front edge of the carpet to give himself a three hundred and sixty degree view of the terrain below, Krin looked back at Finleara and grimaced. She was now huddled down in a fetal position, hugging the center of the carpet, not daring to look over the edge. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already slowed down as much as I can. We really can’t afford to go any slower.” He glanced toward the horizon, and the silver half-disc of the moon rising slowly into the sky. “You know as well as I do we need to make it to Santhelion before day break.”

  The elf-girl just shivered in reply, clutching the hilt of her sword tightly as she huddled down further in the center of the rug, allowing its soft fabric to cradle her securely. Krin smiled to himself. He was impressed by seeing her vulnerability. For the briefest instant, he could see the young, terrified girl; fleeing from the enslavement imposed by the ruthless Winterking.

  It seemed to him she had suffered terribly in her early years. Although Calibus clearly loved her as his own daughter—as much as Nicholas loved him—Garhet had explained that she had been subjected to a much harsher childhood than Krin. A childhood in which she knew of her true nature, and that no matter how much she tried, she would never quite fit in with those around her.

  These thoughts caused Krin to notice that the entire time within the Keep, he had not seen a single child. Whether this was because there had never been any or a product of the recent disappearance, he wasn’t sure. It had been obvious from the moment she and Garhet had met within the goblin settlement, that dwarves—at least, Garhet anyway—were not particularly fond of her. Krin suspected that being raised among a cadre of crotchety old wizards and scholars, each with their own prejudices toward elven-kind, had probably not been a pleasant growing up either.

  He looked back at the mighty female warrior, now frightened at a height of over ten stories, and felt a faint tug at his heart. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, feelings for the young woman were growing. A certain kinship, perhaps. The need to connect with her in a way that might bring him closer to his own heritage; his own past. After all, s
he was, the only one of his kind that he had ever met. Based on what the others had said, he was certain he was interested in meeting others, but Leara was different. Even though they literally came from two different worlds, the fact that they both carried elven blood in their veins, and both had been raised in the Thanaheim, offered a connection unlike any other.

  “You are going to want to steer us slightly to the southeast,” she said, peering nervously over the edge of the carpet. Krin wasn’t sure when exactly she had inched her way to the edge, but he found himself admiring her all the more for overcoming her own apprehension. “If you continue along this course, we will find ourselves right on top of Kor Shani, Sair’n Kryl’s fortress. Santhelion is several leagues to the east of that.” Having said her piece, she scrambled back to the center of the rug, and clutched at the frayed threads for all she was worth.

  Heeding her advice, Krin willed the carpet a hair to the left, felt the wind shift direction across his face, and prepared himself for the ordeal to come.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Krin saw the craggy old structure long before Finleara could point it out. The horizon was painted with the deep, just-before-dawn purple, and the moon had already drifted beyond their sight. The black silhouette of the Tower of Santhelion, still a couple hours walk away, leaned dangerously to one side, like a sickly old man bent over in pain.

  During their journey, Finleara, having mostly overcome her terror of flight, had inched her way closer to Krin. Like him, she now stood, riding the carpet on two wobbly legs, but clutching him around the waist for dear life.