There was another popping sound, a flash of colorful lights, and the scene changed again. The fire was out, but now twelve torches burned, held by sconces mounted to the wall. This staircase was made of brass, slightly green with tarnish. There was no rug on the floor, nor any trapdoor leading down to the cairn.
What is going on? This place is madness.
A low, guttural snarl echoed in the room that suddenly seemed much larger than the previous two—at least seventy-five paces in diameter, if Krin had to guess. The snarl snapped into a fully-realized growl to his left. He turned to see a dark, shadowy shape, distinctly cat-like, skulking toward him on four massive clawed feet, though he couldn’t make out any other features.
“What do you want of me, foul creature?”
There was a hesitation, then a soft, mewling chuckle. “Your flesh, elf-son. Your sweet, tasty flesh.”
Suddenly, the silhouette, the size of a small horse, lunged. Krin turned, bolting toward the stairs, taking them two at a time in a panicked surge of speed. He focused dead ahead as he ran, lest his spiral sprint would make him dizzy, and send him teetering over the rail during a moment of imbalance. It was more difficult than he could have imagined, however, when the clattering of the creature’s claw-tipped paws scrambled up behind him. The N’ahk hissed, and snarled as it raced up after him, spurring Krin faster than ever. But he knew he could not keep the pace up for long. Already, he was gasping for air. His legs burned. And there was so much staircase left to ascend…so much, in fact, that he couldn’t even see the shadow of a landing above.
“Run, run, run, little elf-son,” the thing snarled from behind. “The N’ahk loves the chase. Loves the chase. Loves the chase…but not as much as he loves to taste. Loves to taste. Loves to taste.”
Something slammed against his back, nearly tipping him forward on the stairs. He grabbed ahold of the rails to regain his balance. Krin wasn’t certain what had struck him, but he imagined large cat-like paws batting at him as if he were a mouse just before dinner. He imagined it would only be a heartbeat before the next strike, and it would certainly be his end.
Running was a losing proposition. He stood no chance against a creature as swift and agile as the N’ahk. He had to think of something else if he planned to survive this ordeal.
He was just about to turn and make a foolhardy stand against his attacker, when another loud pop echoed through the tower, followed by a brief series of colorful flashes. The next thing Krin knew, he was no longer on the staircase. Instead, he found himself in another large room—as round as the foyer he had originally entered, but greater in dimension. An enormous brass cylinder—easily as thick as Krin was tall, and nearly twenty feet in length—sat perched at an angle on a rotating mount. The larger end of the cylinder stretched up toward the large domed ceiling, poking through the long, narrow window cut into the structure.
The observatory! Somehow, he had managed to make his way to the upper most chamber in the Tower, and based on the lack of frost and a characteristic drop in temperature, he was pretty sure he didn't have anything to do with the sudden shifts.
Which means it must be the N’ahk doing it! He turned a full three-hundred and sixty degrees in search of his foe.
“Yana Nissi,” the voices repeated. This time, however, it was spoken into the opposite ear.
He whirled around to strike the creature. Suddenly, without warning, the sword Glalbrirer materialized in his hand mid-swing. Its blade, carried by his own momentum, crashed down on the floor in a spray of frost and sparks. He had done it! He had managed to rift his sword from wherever it had disappeared, into this strange warped world.
“No, no, no…not warped. Never warped,” the N’ahk hissed from the shadows. Krin didn’t exactly know why, but the voice sounded different this time. Calmer. Not as…well, ‘hungry’ was the only word he could come up with.
“Different. Just different.”
“You can read my mind?” Krin asked, stepping away from the direction of the voice. The sword was a welcome comfort in his hand.
“This one can,” it mewled. “Not all of them. But this one can see your mind words as easily as reading a book. Or perhaps, this one just knows you so well, it does not need to read your mind words.”
This one? Not all of them? What does that mean?
“It means, elf-son, to N’ahk four times. Perhaps a fifth, and you will have the answer. But not six. Or seven. Five at most, this one thinks.”
“I don’t understand.” Not sure in which direction to speak, he had shouted up to the great dome instead. His body was constantly turning, keeping watch for any sudden movements that might signal another attack.
“N’ahk thinks Krin-Glal is not…”
The now familiar pop, and flashes of light filled the chamber. When his eyes cleared, he found himself still standing in the observatory. However, now, the walls were lined with piles upon piles of sun-bleached bones and skulls. To the east of the large brass cylinder sat a circle of melted wax candles. In the center of the circle, sitting as open as the breeze, was a set of large deer antlers, still connected by a small fragment of skull bone.
The Crown!
Unthinking, he stepped past the candle circle, and stooped to reach for the prize.
The voice hissed. “MY HEART IS GONE WITH CROWN OF BONE.”
Krin spun toward the voice, and staggered when he saw the thing crouching low, across the top of the brass cylinder. It was a creature unlike any he had ever seen before, and he knew instinctively that no mortal being had ever witnessed it, and lived, lucidly enough, to tell the tale. He had grossly misjudged its size. It had the proportions of golden-maned lion, though that might have been due to its distinctive feline shape. But it was completely hairless; its body covered in loose, sagging skin that hung limply around an emaciated frame. From this new vantage point, he could make out the outline of two leathery wings protruding from its shoulders, as well as an impressive set of horns that crowned its head. The creature’s mouth pulled back into a sneering grimace, revealing multiple rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.
“VANISHED IN A SPLINTERED RING,” it continued the strange discourse, almost as if oblivious to Krin’s presence. “GONE IS SHE TO MY ENEMY…THE TORMENTED BRIDE OF THE WINTERKING.”
Cautiously, Krin held up Glalbrirer as he stared back at the nightmare before him. “What does that mean? What are you saying?”
“TIME,” it said, craning its head in an unnatural angle. “TIME WILL TELL ALL. TIME WILL REVEAL ALL. SOMEONE IN TIME, WILL BETRAY. SOMEONE YOU WERE CLOSE TO…OR PERHAPS WILL BE CLOSE TO…OR MAYBE CURRENTLY ARE. THE WINTERKING’S BRIDE WILL TEAR OUT YOUR HEART. BREAK YOU. BUT MAKE YOU ANEW WITH THE WORD.”
Krin’s head spun. Another pop and a maelstrom of light, and the tower had changed again. The brass cylinder was no longer there. The N’ahk sat on his haunches staring serenely at him, as if it had not tried to eat him only moments before.
“There is much to tell you, Krin-Glal,” it said. The voice sounded different once more. Still, the same viper-like hiss as before, but gentler. Even more unsettling, it seemed to be more eloquent. Coherent.
“But we have little time. The others all want their turn. They want to share you. Some even desire to feast upon you. But you are our kin, and in that, you have been invited where no man has been allowed before.”
The scene suddenly shifted again.
“Yana Nissi,” came the disembodied voices behind him.
He spun around as he had done the two previous times, and was not surprised to find nothing there. His world flashed back to the more serene visage of the N’ahk.
“I don’t understand what is going on,” Krin said, gripping his sword tighter than ever. “Why do you keep calling me that? And how am I considered your kin?”
“I call you Krin-Glal because that is your name,” it said. “Or at least, it will be. Or has been. It is all so very confusing.”
“You’re telling me!”
“As for callin
g you ‘kin’, that is simply because it was true. Or it is true. Or it will be true.” The creature stood from its haunches, and sauntered casually toward Krin; steering well clear of the circle of lit candles. “You carry our blood in your veins. Blood you received from your father. Blood your father received upon his own pilgrimage to our Tower in his own world. It is how he, a full-blood, managed to journey to your world. But that is a very long story, and our time is so very short.”
The room shifted again. The N’ahk was once more perched upon the cylinder. “WICKEDLY. SICKEDLY. LICKETY-SPLIT. KRIN-GLAL AND THE N’AHK, THEY TALK. AND THEY SIT.”
Another shift. The more serene N’ahk paced around the circle. “Some of what I say, you will remember. Others, you will remember when it is needed. But for now, sit. Relax. And let us talk.”
FORTY-ONE
Madagus Keep
Ulfilas crouched, ran his index finger across the patch of loose gravel, then brought it up to his nose. Two quick whiffs, and his mouth turned down into a scowl.
Blood, he thought; carefully swiping the gravel and dirt to expose a dark brown patch beneath. And looks as though, he was dragged this way.
The Visigoth had long since given up hope of finding the missing magus alive. The day before, he had discovered the place he believed Reganus had been murdered—an alcove jutting out from one of the highest towers overlooking the garden. Small traces of blood had given the scene away. Whoever had done it had tried to clean up as best they could, but had overlooked sanitizing underneath the parapet’s railing. They had also missed a few shards of vibrantly-colored glass—the kind of glass seen with a finely crafted wine decanter, or perhaps a bottle of expensive perfume.
Of course, upon discovering the murder scene, he wanted to continue the hunt throughout the night, but the busybody of a healer had adamantly refused. He had demanded the giant get a good night’s rest before resuming the search. And although the big man had protested the sage advice with a string of curses upon the physician’s parentage, descendants, and even cousins, he had secretly been grateful for the intervention.
The search had indeed taken its toll on his mending body. His honor compelled him to continue the hunt until he had either located the missing man, or he dropped dead from exhaustion, or blood loss. Magus Quinton had saved him from all that, demanding he let his body—if not his mind—rest for the night. And it had done wonders.
Before the sun had stretched much past the Wiehen Mountains, he had awoken, dressed in his full armor—just in case—and headed out in search for Reganus’ corpse. He had picked up the trail in a thickly wooded patch of land a short hike east of the Grove, outside the Magi compound.
He still had very little to go on in regards to the fate of the irritable magus. It was obvious that he was probably quite dead—if Reganus had been the killer, and had hidden his victim so well, he could have easily returned to his fellow magi. The fact that he was still missing was proof enough that he had, indeed, been the victim in this. Ulfilas couldn’t be sure how he had been killed; not until the body was discovered anyway. But there had been a great deal of blood loss. Also, he knew that whoever had disposed of his body had to have been a person of great strength, stamina, and stealth, not to mention a small amount of agile grace. The killer, had managed to carry the body across the battlements without being seen, heft him over the rails and tossing it over the wall, then dragged him for nearly half a morning's walk into dense, hill country.
Ulfilas stood, stretched to unravel the kinked muscles bunching in his lower back, and took a deep breath. The air was chill, biting at his exposed flesh with frosty teeth. A light snow had begun to fall, coating his shoulders and hair in a soft white down. He glanced up past the trees and the ominous dark clouds rolling in from the south. The weather was going to grow worse soon, making his search all the more difficult. The moment the snow blanketed the ground, any trace of the magus or his killer would be lost until the spring thaw. He had to hurry.
Keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, he meandered his way through the foliage, following the now rather obvious trail where the body had been dragged. Snapped twigs, leaves pressed down into the damp earth, and telltale flecks of blood blazed the path before him as easily as if someone had erected a large sign reading “This Way to the Corpse.”
Twenty minutes later, the stench struck his nose like a war hammer. Ulfilas was surprised that the remains were so decomposed, with the temperature hovering just below freezing. But the smell left him no doubt, that whatever lifeless thing that lay nearby had already begun to putrefy.
“Great,” he muttered. “Nothing worse than searching a bloated corpse for clues to its killer first thing in the morning.”
He swept through the underbrush, hacking away at the thick vegetation with his falx while following his nose. After approximately fifty paces, he stumbled on the tattered remains of a lower leg; cut—or rather gnawed off—just below its knee.
“That does not bode well.”
From the beginning of his search, he had assumed he would be dealing with a human killer. But from the deep grooves gouged into the tip of the tibia, he knew there must be a rather large, predatory animal about. Even more startling, the bone had been cracked, and Ulfilas could see where the marrow had been emptied from within.
He knew from the days when he was learning to hunt, that it was quite common for animals to scavenge the carcasses that had dropped dead in their territory. He had no doubt that this was precisely what he was looking at now. However, the sheer size of the teeth marks told him that whatever had feasted on the remains was a force of nature he was in no condition to tangle with. He shuddered as a sudden recollection of the large cats he had faced along Re’athana Pass flashed through his mind.
Best find the body, and get out of here while the sun’s still high. He left the leg bone and he resumed his search. Twenty some odd paces to the east, he found the rest of the remains…which didn’t appear to be much. The only thing to identify the body as belonging to Reganus was his fine robes, now shredded and tattered, blood-soaked rags. The head, torso, and remaining limbs appeared to have been gutted and torn with large, saber-like teeth. So, it was those cat creatures.
Unnerved by the realization, Ulfilas froze, watching from his peripheral vision for signs of movement. After several long moments, he exhaled, satisfied that he was alone. He immediately turned his attention back to the remains. Crouching down over the fallen magus, he scrutinized every inch, paying particular attention to the clothing for drag marks, pieces of cloth that might not belong to him, and anything else that presented itself. It didn’t take long to find what he had been looking for.
Carefully, he reached down to the shredded fabric of the robe’s sleeves, and lifted it for a closer look. He was right. A hair. And not the coarse orange-brown of the cats either. This one was long, and slender. Hardly visible against the crimson stain of blood, and dark folds of the robe. But it was there all right, and Ulfilas’ blood ran cold at the sight of it. He plucked the strand gently from the sleeve and held it closer to his eye. Its silver-white sheen glistened in the sun’s orange-red rays of dusk.
Instantly, he sprang to his feet, and turned toward the southwest. In the direction Krin had traveled for his clandestine mission. With the girl.
No longer concerned for his healing injuries…forgetting about the remains of the murdered magus…Ulfilas broke into a sprint, running as fast as he could toward the Keep. He had to procure a horse—Magus Quinton could hang if he didn’t like it—and start off at once. The boy was in terrible danger, and he didn’t even know it. He wasn’t sure if he would get to him in time, but he would ride like the wind, and do all in his power to protect the boy.
And he would happily thrust his blade into the elf-witch’s gut if she stood in his way.
FORTY-TWO
Tower of Santhelion
“…telling you that it is paramount that you control your anxiety, if you ever wish to have greater control over your
rifting,” Finleara was saying as Krin popped back into existence. “Now step into the center of the room, and let us give our plan a try.”
Krin just stared at her. “Um, huh?”
“I swear, you are the most insufferable person I have ever had to deal with in my life!” she shouted, throwing her hands into the air. “You have not heard a single word I have spoken, have you?”
He blinked at her. Turned to look at the old, rickety staircase behind him, then stared at her again.
“How could I have heard any word that you've been saying? I was gone for days! Maybe longer than just days. Weeks maybe.”
If not for the few scraps of food the N’ahk kept providing him—when it hadn’t lost its mind completely and tried to eat him instead—he would have surely starved.
To be honest, he was surprised Finleara had stuck it out for as long as she had. He had figured she would most certainly have abandoned hope he would ever return, and left to rendezvous with her father at Sair’n Nanlech.
The fact that she was still there, and spouting off a string of indecipherable commands at him was mind-boggling.
Then again, a few weeks with that insane creature was probably enough to take me to the point of madness. He peered at her face. Perhaps she’s not here after all, and I’m only imagining it all. He turned back to the staircase once more. It certainly sounds like her though.
“Master Krin!” Finleara shouted, her fists firmly planted on her hips. The reprimand drew him back. “Please pay attention. We will never retrieve the Crown of Nandur if you…”
Slowly, he brought his right hand forward and held it up, revealing the large set of deer antlers he held.
The gesture brought her to an abrupt halt. She gasped, wide-eyed, then quickly collected herself.
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 31