Now, even the Magi were beginning to falter, feeling the overwhelming pressure of the Dragon Lord’s army. A few Dhuna even managed to break the line completely, however, and that was where Garhet, Ulf, and a handful of others lay in wait at the mine’s entrance.
But Garhet knew their time was near its end. Their numbers had dwindled to around two hundred souls, yet the enemy still counted in the thousands. For every Roman and Dhuna that lay dead on the battlefield, there were easily ten to fifteen of their own.
Suddenly, another troll sprang over the fortification, leaping toward Garhet. The dwarf whirled around to defend himself, but was instantly thrown off balance by the creature under his boot. He tumbled backward, losing his axe in the fall, and rolling down into a small drainage trench that had been dug by the miners. The trolls, squealing like over-fed hogs in an August heat wave, instantly brought their spears to bear, and lunged. They were only within a few paces of landing their killing blow when a sudden boom of thunder rumbled through the valley, followed by a maelstrom of lightning that cut a swath against the suddenly darkened sky.
The trolls, trembling at Nature’s sudden fury, dropped to all fours, and scurried away to the nearest cover they could find. Stunned, Garhet sat up, and glanced around. The entire battlefield was silent as death itself. Not even the faintest clink of metal could be heard among the throng.
“What the…”
“Garhet,” Ulfilas said, slowly walking up to him, and extending his hand to help him to his feet. “Look.”
The dwarf followed the big man’s gaze to the center of the battlefield where a patch of newly formed ice spread out for nearly a hundred yards in all directions. A tall man—easily six-feet tall—stood there with his back to them, a tattered red-velvet cloak flapping in an arctic breeze. The newcomer gripped the hilt of a gold-handled sword with calloused hands. The man’s arms, bare of armor, were as thick as cedar, and laced with the telltale swirls and plant motifs of a dark elf’s lifeglyph. The glyphs radiated with a sky-blue glow, pulsing rhythmically as if synchronized to the stranger’s heartbeat.
No one moved or spoke. Garhet even wondered if anyone dared take in a breath as they all stared at the man who had seemingly materialized from nowhere, and pulsed with a surge of raw, unimaginable power. At a distance, the stranger reminded the dwarf of the mysterious Neptune-like savior who had saved him from drowning months earlier.
Then, the man slowly turned a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, viewing the battlefield with his keen lavender eyes. Eyes of one who had seen far too many battles. Sad, weary, yet determined eyes.
When Garhet could finally see the man’s face clearly…his heart nearly stopped. The man appeared to be approaching forty, with a weather-worn and hardened face, and a full, but neatly trimmed silver-white beard, marking him as a half-elf—full-blood elves could not grow facial hair. There was little doubt as to who now stood before him; though he had no idea how it was possible.
As the dwarf let his eyes drift down to the ragged scar stretching across the man's neck, there could no longer be any doubt. His heart soared.
“Krin!” he shouted, his cavity-filled grin spreading from one ear to the other.
“Krin!” shouted someone else on the battlefield, followed by another, and another, until the entire land erupted in a chorus of one word: Krin!
As one, the Dhuna stumbled back in awe of the man.
Krin—so much older than the boy who had been lost to them in the courtyard of Kor Shani only three weeks before—continued his gaze in silence, and every enemy eye stared fearfully back. He stood tall. Confident. And a gleam of something metallic radiated from atop his head. Garhet focused in on the object, and gasped. It was a crown. But not just any crown. It was the royal vestment that could only be worn by the one Christened the Winterking.
The horde of Dhuna—elves, trolls, and ogres alike—noticed it as well, for they each took several more steps backwards away from this strange warrior wearing the crown of their King. But if Krin noticed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he continued to scan the battlefield until he reached sight of Sair’n Kryl, who visibly shook upon his steed; though Garhet wasn’t certain if it was from rage or terror.
Drawing Glalbrirer from its sheath, Krin raised the sword into the air, and pointed it directly toward the Dragon Lord.
“Sair’n Kryl!” he shouted across the field. “I know who you are! I know what you have done, and what you intend to do.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Today, I give you notice. Today, I give you a choice.” His voice was deep, and hardy, and stronger than any man’s the dwarf had ever known. “Surrender, or face the wrath of the rightful King of Wyndter!”
The battlefield instantly erupted in a roar of excited shouts. Shouts of anger, terror, and disbelief from the Dhuna; and shouts of joy from the Magi and their army. The ogres, standing well back from the newcomer gnashed their teeth, and brushed their trunk-like feet against the snow as if readying for a charge. The trolls, elves, and others clanged their weapons against their armor—nervously signaling their intent to fight this lone man who made such blasphemous claims.
Finally, after several long seconds, the throng of warriors settled down, and Sair’n Kryl’s steed strode several steps closer to his enemy. The red-robed magus raised his hooked arm, and glanced at it before turning his baleful gaze back to Krin.
“Look around, O Great King of Wyndter!” he shouted mockingly. “You are alone! The Magi and their pathetic army are all but vanquished. It is only you who face thousands of my Dhuna. You against a legion of Rome! What chance do you have against us?”
Krin stared at the man, lowered his head, and sighed. He then, shrugged, and looked up at his enemy once more. “I am not alone, villain. I am far from alone. With me, goes the greatest army the Four Worlds have ever seen, and I pity you all the more for having to witness it!” He then raised both arms into the air, took in a deep breath, and shouted in a voice that reminded Garhet of the very horns of Jericho, “YANA NISSI!”
The Lord goes before us, Garhet translated silently. His cheeks began to ache yet he couldn't stop smiling. The tide was about to change.
At those words, a sudden rush of arctic wind whipped up from behind him, lashing against his cloak in a whirlwind of snow, and before everyone’s eyes, an enormous blue-black rift split the very air around him, and a gateway—easily one hundred and fifty paces across—was opened.
A heartbeat passed. And another. Then a single feminine foot stepped out into our world. Krin, smiling now, reached out, and took the hand of the fair maiden on the other side of the gate, helping her through. The woman was tall, and fair, with hair the color of newly fallen snow, and braided up with a wreath of holly in the traditional hairstyle of a Dhuna bride. The bridal dress, made up entirely of water lilies and lotus blossoms, hugged at her lithe frame as she drew closer to Krin. Her own lifeglyphs pulsed, nearly in rhythm with Krin’s own. Then, she extended her other arm, and Finleara stretched her own sword out in the direction of the enemy.
The rift continued to thrum behind the two, bristling with constrained energy just waiting to be unleashed. Every man, dwarf, and creature watched to see what would happen next. A moment later, a single feather-footed imp shot out from the portal, followed immediately by two more. Then, something close to three thousand imps exploded from the portal with a blood-curdling cry upon their lips, and sped straight for Sair’n Kryl’s forces with a single-minded fury.
At the sight of the aerial assault, the Dhuna turned, and ran, heading straight for the safety of their own portal at Sair’n Del—only to find the way blocked by an entire army of Light Elves, long thought extinct from all the worlds by most people’s reckoning; as well as a phalanx of nymphs, dryads, pixies, brownies, and…Garhet’s breath caught in his throat…an entire harem of dwarfwives, clad in gleaming armor and brandishing the most finely crafted weapons he had ever seen.
The dwarfwives had returned.
Krin, now the Winterking,
had returned.
And hope along with them.
The tide, thought Garhet, picking up his axe, and rushing toward the battle, has turned indeed.
TO BE CONTINUED IN…
THE CHILDREN OF MAERHAVEN
AUTHOR’S NOTE
[Warning: Do not read this author’s note until you’ve finished the book. Spoilers abound! I intentionally didn’t link this to the Table of Contents for this very reason.]
I bet I know what you’re thinking. Well, maybe not exactly what you’re thinking. After all, that depends on so many factors. But I can at least identify the three major categories of thought of the people who read this book. Want to hear them?
Well, first, there’s the indignant: “Wait. What? Did I just spend five bucks (if you purchased the ebook) and X number of hours reading this, only to have the book end that way?”
Second, there’s the confused: “But…uh…Krin was…I mean…how…grrrrrrrr.”
And finally, there’s the simple, but eloquent: “Darn that Kent Holloway!”
Am I right? Did I come close? And yes, I’m aware that there will be a slim few that probably don’t have those thoughts going through their head at the moment, but they eventually—probably—will.
I only have two words for you in that regard. “I’m sorry.” I can’t get more succinct than that. I truly am. Although personally, as a reader, I love books with cliffhangers—actually, I should amend that to say, I love books with cliffhangers IF I don’t have to wait forever to find out what happens next—to call the ending of this book a ‘cliffhanger’ is slightly like calling an atom bomb a firecracker.
Not only did it end, just as the final battle was about to begin, it did so in one of the most confusing manners I’m aware of that any book has ever attempted. Trust me…this was not my intention. Well, it sorta was, I guess, but hear me out. One thing most writers will agree on is the fact that while writing a book, the story kind of takes on a life of its own. The characters begin to breathe and act and think independently of the author’s wishes. Chaos and mayhem ensue. And that’s the absolute thrill ride of writing. As Bilbo Baggins once said, it’s a dangerous thing stepping outside one’s door because you never know where you’re going to end up. That’s the life of a writer, and the indomitable will of his creation.
First of all, know this. When I originally conceived of this story, I never intended for it to be a trilogy. I wanted it to be a series of independent fantasy adventures. But the story I developed for it was just far too vast to be contained in a single book (especially given the fact that my one chief complaint about the fantasy genre is that their books are just too long for my tastes). I knew very quickly going in that this would have to be turned into a trilogy.
“We get that,” you might be saying. “But Kent…the ENDING!”
Yeah, I know.
“You killed Krin!” you say. “Then brought him back. Older. Conan-esque.”
Yep.
“And you’re not even going to tell us how?”
Nope. At least, not in this book. Actually, that’s what the entirety of Book 2, THE CHILDREN OF MAERHAVEN is all about. Well, it’s not ALL about it, but it will at least reveal just what happened.
You see, Book 2 will take place in those three weeks (or twenty years from Krin’s point of view) that he is in Wyndter. It will reveal how he became the Winterking, and what happened to the Krampus. It will tie in all those little questions about the N’ahk, and the Maera-Wif, and hopefully, any other questions you might have. It will cover (not exactly in order, mind you) just what happened from the moment Krin, his throat cut from ear to ear, rifts into Wyndter to the moment he rifts back into our world, the midst of a battle at Sair’n Nanlech. Just three short weeks. A full twenty-odd years. All rolled into one great book that will be released Novemberish of 2015.
I promise you, all will be made clear. When you read The Crown of Nandur, please don’t think of it as a single book within a trilogy. Think of The Legend of the Winterking as one complete book with each volume merely three different acts that make it up.
Oh, and Book 3, just so you know, will pick up precisely where we left off at Book 1…at the Battle of Sair’n Nanlech II. And trust me…that’s when things get REALLY crazy. You won’t want to miss it. Or, at least, I hope you won’t.
Point of all this is to simply say, thank you. Thank you for reading this book. And thank you for trusting me enough with your sensibilities to play a little emotional tug-o-war with you in regards to just how this book ended. I will do my very best not to betray that trust. I will do everything in my power to reward you for it.
~ J. Kent Holloway
November 9, 2014
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 37