Winter's King

by Bryce O'Connor

  And—gliding among them like a single perfect flake in a winter storm—a woman with white hair danced about, her pale red eyes raised to meet Raz’s as she moved.

  He found, to his moderate—though fortunately private—embarrassment, that he was hard-pressed not to get excited.

  There was a groan from behind him, and Raz looked around, shifting Ahna higher up onto his shoulder with one hand as he did. Slung across Gale’s back—and propped slightly onto his left side by a bedroll so his healing ribs wouldn’t be stressed by the weight of his own body—Reyn Hartlet was strapped over the saddle with rope, preventing him from sliding off. Carro had insisted the man remain in his suspended sleep, and so Raz had had to try to keep the aggressive stallion calm for nearly a half-hour that morning as the others did their best to get the man on the animal’s back. They’d managed it, but had made the mistake of slinging Reyn’s head over the right side of the saddle, the side which generally faced the wall of the path as they moved north and west up the mountain. While more often than not this had been something of a nuisance, forcing Raz to be extra careful when guiding Gale along the narrower parts of the steps, he had enjoyed himself a few times by deliberately knocking the young man’s head into the lines of fragile icicles that occasionally hung over them, dangling from the outcroppings above.

  Raz wasn’t about to forget that Reyn had done his best to cave his skull in not ten hours before, after all.

  “Halt!”

  Raz barely made out the command over the howl of the wind, and he turned back to the front to see why Cullen Brern had stopped their climb. He gazed upward, over the heads of the Priests that crowded the stairs, frowning at the uneven, monolithic outline of the mountain that continued to tower upwards into the storm.

  “How much further?” he called out to Carro, taking several more steps until he was only a few feet behind the old Priest. Carro turned and peered at him from between snow-caked lids.

  “What did you say?” the man shouted back, clearly not having heard a word.

  “How. Much. Further?” Raz enunciated, yelling still louder. “And what have we stopped for? What’s Brern doing up—?”

  Raz’s question choked and caught suddenly as he looked up again to try to make out Cullen Brern’s outline among the others at the front of the group. He found him easily enough, head and shoulders above the others.

  And as he did, he realized he’d been wrong about the lumbering outline that hung, dark and foreboding, in the sky above them.

  Slowly, second by second as the winds shifted and the snows fell in undisciplined patterns, Raz started to make out details of the great structures that hid beyond the veil of the blizzard. In an instant the fantastical rendition of the Citadel he had been keeping in his head was swallowed up and discarded, banishing the white and gold marble spires in favor of high, heavy walls, pointed stone towers with angled turrets, crenelated battlements that hung out impossibly over the openness of the mountain slopes, and wicked, leering arrow slits. The mystical marvel that was Cyurgi’ Di suddenly transformed itself into the hulking body of some great, slumbering beast, resting eternally among the peaks. He couldn’t see much more than the hints of what was directly in front of him, but as Raz’s sharp eyes trailed the outlines through the snow he took in the vastness of the place, like a walled city built right into—and out of—the cliffs.

  “Sun and Moon and all Her Stars…” he breathed, numbed even by what little he saw. The High Citadel wasn’t a castle, or some transcendental keep built among the heavens.

  The High Citadel was a fortress, carved right out of the mountain itself.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  Carro’s shout almost made Raz jump, so unexpected was it as he lost himself in the massive shadow that was Cyurgi’ Di, mostly hidden by the falling snow. The man had moved back to stand beside him, following his eyes upward as they trailed the dulled crenellations of those ramparts that he could see.

  “It is!” Raz yelled back after a few seconds. “It’s not exactly what I expected, but I suppose that’s on me!”

  “With time, it grows more friendly!” Carro responded sagely. “Initially… less so!”

  “I’ll say!” Raz’s eyes now trailed the outlines of what he thought might be a pair of bastion towers. “This doesn’t exactly look like a place I would expect to find your kind, Carro!”

  “Precisely why it is so ideal!” the Priest yelled with the hint of a smile. “There are many layers to all things, Raz! A face of peace and goodness can hide twisted desires, while the façade of force and war—” he waved at the Citadel “—might be home to the greatest source of hope mankind can forge!” He smirked, looking back up at Raz, only one eye visible beneath the hood. “I think you know what happens when people take you at face value, hmm?”

  “I do,” Raz said quietly, but Carro didn’t hear him. At that moment there was a crack and a static sizzling, and something seemed to fall away in the air between their small party and the Citadel. A moment later there was a second crack, and the same thing happened again, the air shimmering in falling geometries, like a shattering wall of clear crystal that one might not have even noticed was there.

  “Brern’s taken down the defensive wards!” Carro shouted in explanation. “The council will get them back up as soon as we’ve entered!”

  Raz nodded, watching Cullen Brern motion that they were moving again. As one his group took the last steps onto what appeared to be some sort of flattened platform, and Carro moved to follow at once. Raz coaxed Gale into motion again, guiding him over one last patch of ice and onto the steep incline of the final stairs.

  When he’d managed to get the horse safely up and over the last step, buffeted back and forth by the wind all the while, Raz stood straight and looked around. They were standing at the edge of a wide, semicircular plateau, a perfect half-ring buried under a foot of soft, powdered snow. To their right, the wall of the mountain rose in an incline overhead, while to their left the lip of the plateau fell off into the infinite white of the storm. The only mar in the scene was a slight indentation that led in a line directly ahead of them, along which Raz assumed Brern and his men had come the night before.

  It was when he followed this hinted path with his eyes, trailing it as it led ahead and away from them, that Raz began to feel his fingers tingle in what could only be described as a reverent thrill.

  The mouth of the High Citadel stood some twenty paces ahead of them, a dark, arched hole that tunneled for what looked like fifty feet through solid stone. The wall it breached towered upwards, fearsome in its silent breadth, its top ledge barely visible another fifty feet above them. On either side of the archway, like giant sentinels, the bastion towers Raz had indeed made out stood guard, jutting into the plateau like swords held before a shield. They hulked overhead, pierced by a dozen arrow slits each, as though daring anyone fool enough to step forward and claim entry.

  Raz, for a moment, felt himself suddenly seized by the desire to turn around and march right back down the path. As Cullen Brern led his group forward, though, and Carro turned to give him a coaxing jerk of his head, he sighed.

  Then he stepped forward, guiding Gale through the trampled snow, into the mouth of the beast.

  Priest Dolt Avonair was slumbering at his post when a pounding knock shook the heavy main doors of the Citadel to his left. He’d been told there was no need for him to keep his watch, that the wards would warn the council if anyone was approaching. But Dolt had been gatekeeper for too many years to feel comfortable leaving his appointment unattended, especially in times such as these. He had insisted he be allowed to remain—had even brought his case to the interim High Priest himself, in fact—and Jofrey had eventually relented, muttering that he didn’t see any harm in adding another pair of eyes to their defenses.

  It was for this reason, therefore, that Dolt was seated in his regular chair, dozing off to dreams of rich meals and sunshine, when the heavy, booming knocks woke him with a jo
lt.

  “Dolt!” the familiar voice of Cullen Brern called, muffled through the wood. “It’s us! Open up!”

  Dolt scrambled to his feet, cursing the stiffness of muscles and ache of bones from sitting in the cold by the door. “Just a moment!”

  Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Dolt hurried over and quickly reached up to jerk at a slim slot of wood that was set just an inch or two above his eye-level in the door. It took a couple tries to break the snow and ice that had built up on the other side, but within a few seconds Dolt was able to slide the wood away and peer outside, squinting against the sudden blast as fridgid air was sucked in through the hole. He saw a number of robed figures huddled against the wind and storm, then the bearded face of Brern himself, glowering down impatiently, clearly in no mood to be kept waiting.

  Slamming the slot shut again, Dolt kicked the bottom lockbar up on its hinge, releasing the other two by hand. Then, with a grunt of effort, he threw his tubby body against the door, fighting the gale, layered snow, and the sheer weight of the timber as he got it ajar.

  As soon as a crack showed, several gloved hands appeared to help, and a moment later the door swung wide.

  “Hello, Brern!” Dolt said cheerfully, stepping quickly out of the way as the master-at-arms moved into the relative warmth of the hall, the men and women at his command following one after the other. “How was the descent? And the climb? What news do you bring us? Anything promising?”

  “Cheerful even under siege,” Cullen Brern chuckled, though he sounded oddly somber as he threw off his hood and started kneading clumps of snow out of his beard. “It’s always good to see you, Dolt. As for news, it’s nothing half so pleasant, but you’ll hear all about that soon enough. For now, though, do you know what our stocks of straw look like?”

  “Straw?” Dolt asked as what he thought was the last of the group stepped through the open door. “I’m not sure. Plenty, I’d have to say, what with needing it for beds and the birds and—” He paused, looking more closely at the last man to have entered the room, one arm in a sling around his neck. “Oy, is that Carro? Carro! Where did you come from, you old—?”

  Dolt’s rambling ended so abruptly, one would have thought he’d been struck dumb. He was staring, open mouthed and eyes wide, at the last figure to step out of the snow, breath billowing around its head in the cold. Like some monster come right out of a child’s nightmare, the beast seemed to rise endlessly, standing an easy head over Carro and Brern both. Even before it raised a hand to pull down its pelt hood—the appendage encased in a steel gauntlet complete with wicked claws—Dolt saw the shine of long needled teeth protruding up and down along a black, serpentine muzzle. As the furs fell away, Dolt found himself stricken by golden eyes, vertically slit and quick, settling on him. Spined, webbed ears, strung with membranes that looked blood-red in the warm light of the hall, spread and extended on either side of the creature’s head. Even as he noticed these, Dolt saw the flicker of more red, and his gaze moved slowly down to the hint of leathery wings folded beneath a thick mantle, then lower still to armored legs and long feet protected by heavy pelt boots from which black claws extended through slits in the fur.

  It was only as he made out the slithering, snaking form of a dark, scaled tail, as thick at its base as a man’s thigh, that Dolt heard himself make a sound.

  “A-ah-a-uh-a,” he stammered, his tongue failing him as he took in more and more of the thing that had appeared at his doorstep. The hand that had pulled down its hood now rested on the head of a long ax looped into the creature’s belt, and Dolt finally noticed reins entwined between the steel fingers, leading back to a massive black horse that still stood outside, head turned away from the wind. A Priest was trussed up and tied down over the animal’s saddle like a sack of potatoes, but Dolt barely registered this. His eyes were moving back to the monster, following his other hand, wrapped about the haft of some great, spear-like weapon, its bottom weighed down by a pointed steel tip, its top hidden by what looked to be an old leather bag.

  “A-eh-aa-ah.” Dolt tripped over himself again, unable to form even half a word. Brern, who had finished patting the ice from his beard and hair, looked up, his expression mildly amused.

  “Dolt, meet Raz i’Syul Arro,” he said with a smirk, indicating the creature. Then he gestured to Dolt. “Master Arro, this is Priest Dolt Avonair, the Citadel’s primary gatekeeper since before he got his staff.”

  Dolt was still incapable of enunciating so much as a coherent sound. The thing—Arro—raised the steel-clad fingers of the hand holding the lance-like weapon over his shoulder in a casual salute.

  “Hello,” it said, the word rumbling from its throat in a dangerous, animalistic tenor.

  There was nothing else to be done. As he heard the creature speak, opening its cruel mouth to reveal lines of wicked white fangs, Dolt felt the blood rush from his head.

  Then the world went black, and Dolt Avonair knew only that he was falling.

  “Oh dear,” Carro said, hurrying forward as the gatekeeper—Dolt, Brern had introduced him as—tumbled to the floor before their eyes. The man crumpled where he stood, spilling to the ground in an awkward pile of robes and limbs.

  “Ha!” Cullen Brern laughed out loud. “Has he gone and fainted? Poor fellow.” He turned, revealing the first relaxed grin Raz had seen since meeting him the previous night. “I wouldn’t take it too personally, Master Arro. Priest Avonair’s a cheerful fellow, but he’s not known for his constitution. I do believe he has a tendency to hyperventilate when the harvesters haul up slaughtered game every summer.”

  “No offense taken,” Raz said with a shrug, peering down in concern as Carro eased himself to one knee beside the unconscious man. “He’s not the first, though I admit it’s usually women who faint at the sight of me…”

  “Can’t imagine why that might be,” someone’s voice muttered sarcastically from his left, among Brern’s group. Raz slowly turned his head in their direction, eyeing the man he suspected had made the comment. The Priest refused to meet his gaze, though, as did several others among the men and women that surrounded him.

  Brern, too, it seemed, had heard the remark. He lost his grin abruptly, as though remembering himself. Pulling off his gloves he began banging his boots against the ground, looking around. “Loric.” One of the men behind him glanced up attentively. “Fetch Jofrey. I imagine he’ll be in the High Priest’s chambers, waiting for more news than I could send with the messenger spell. Tell him it’s of the utmost importance, but say nothing else. Tell him he’ll have the answers to any questions he might have. We’ll be in the consecration room.”

  As the Priest nodded and began making his way left down the hall, Brern grabbed him by the arm. “And not a word of this to anyone else, you hear?”

  Loric’s eyes grew wide, but he nodded again, hurrying off as soon as Brern let go of him.

  “Vance, Kahsta,” he said, looking at the man and woman closest to him. “Gather the rest of the council. The same rules apply. Say nothing, not even to them. The consecration room. Clear?”

  Each gave their indication of understanding, and Brern sent them off with a jerk of his head. Raz watched them leave, wondering which would be the one to find Syrah Brahnt first.

  “The rest of you!” Brern called, speaking to the remainder of his group. “I know you’re tired and hungry, but you’ll have to bear the wait a little longer until after the council has sorted this mess out.”

  There was a grumbling of discontent, but no one seemed brave enough to voice any actual disagreement.

  “Excellent,” the master-at-arms said with a nod. “Then off to the room with you. We’ll follow soon.”

  As one the men and women shuffled on down the right hall, opposite the direction the other three had gone, peeling themselves out of damp robes as they went.

  “Is there a place for Gale?” Raz asked, feeling awkward in front of the open door, the horse snuffling in the cold behind him.

  “N
one,” Brern said without looking around, moving over to where Carro still crouched over Dolt Avonair. “At least nowhere you’d traditionally keep a horse, that is. There are a few chambers along the north hall that still have arrow slits.” He waved in the direction he’d sent the majority of his subordinates. “They’re warm enough, they’ll have plenty of fresh air, and with some straw we’ll make something work. For now, he stays with us.”

  Raz nodded at that, pulling Gale into the hall. The horse snorted and stomped, unsure in the sudden warmth, light, and dryness. As Reyn Hartlet’s tall form barely made it through the opening, Raz heard Brern speaking quietly to Carro, on his knees by the still form of Dolt Avonair.

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Carro replied quietly. “Just hit his head on the way down.”

  “Serves him right, fainting like that.”

  “Cullen, the first time I saw Raz up close, I’m quite certain I nearly pissed myself.”

  Raz chuckled privately, listening to the old men discuss in hushed voices as he dropped Gale’s reins and moved back to pull the heavy door closed behind the stallion. As he turned around again he allowed himself to bask in the comfortable warmth of the space, taking in the hall in detail for the first time.

  It was less bright than he had imagined the interior of the Laorin’s home would be, but there was no discomfort in the dimness of the light. Rather, the glow was hearty and welcoming, blue and white candles on shelves and tables, and still others tucked into tiny alcoves in the stone supplementing the torches that burned with familiar smokeless ivory flames every few meters along the wall. The ground beneath him, a puzzle of grey slate slabs, was warm even through his furs, and Raz recalled what Carro had said about the copper piping in the floors and walls channeling warmth and fresh air into the fortress. He tasted the hall with a flick of his tongue, then took in a deep breath simply out of curiosity. Indeed, there lacked a stuffiness to the space that one usually found in such constricted environments. It might have been because they were standing just inside the main doors, but Raz rather thought he could give credit to the ingenuity of the Citadel’s builders.