Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

by Paul Freeman

  “Whoever has done this shall suffer like no man has ever suffered before!” he stormed. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, gritted his teeth as his eyes bulged and his face flushed red. Rosinnio’s handmaiden flinched when he glared at her, fear in her eyes. He ignored her.

  A warrior rushed into the chamber. “Jarl Crawulf, riders have been spotted fleeing the castle beyond the west wall,” he said, gulping down breath.

  Crawulf slammed his fist against the hard stone wall. “Bring my sword and armour! Prepare my horse. We will ride them down before they reach Whalebone Beach.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the warrior answered as men hurried to do their lord’s bidding, grabbing weapons, barking instructions into the air. Crawulf stormed from the chamber and through the castle with thunder in his eyes.

  He climbed into the saddle with the aid of a stable boy. A dozen riders, with armour and weapons jingling, pulled on reins to control restless horses as the beasts stomped excitedly in the courtyard. The breath of mounts and men misted in the cold morning air as the heavy wooden gates slowly creaked open.

  “I want them alive!” Crawulf roared over the noise as he kicked his horse’s flanks, urging the animal onward. The sound of clopping hooves reverberated around the courtyard and beyond. Men and women rushed out beyond the gate, to watch their jarl lead his small band of men west, until they were dark specks in the distance.

  He was sure he knew where they were headed, a small cove to the west of the island often used by fishermen and others who were not inclined to announce their arrival on his shores by entering the main harbour. If he had to kill his horses to catch them before they reached the vessel which was surely waiting for them, then he would.

  As it happened there was no need to destroy the mounts as Crawulf and his housecarls rode down their quarry before they reached the beach. They had stopped in clear view on the open grassland, which dominated the windswept island, close to a small copse of trees. Perhaps they had sought to seek shelter in the trees, or perhaps they had not expected to be followed, Crawulf thought. No matter, they had been caught and he would ensure their deaths would not be easy.

  “Hold!” he barked at them when they came into sight. The three men made no attempt to escape. He kicked his horse towards them, anger coursing through his body, an image of the lady Rosinnio choking on her own bile fresh in his mind.

  As the group of riders neared the three men, one of Crawulf’s warriors let out a cry of warning, “The trees!” He turned to look where his man was pointing. Dark shapes melted from the copse. Shadows that became men. The three assassins kicked their mounts and galloped towards the line of warriors.

  “What’s this?” Crawulf growled.

  “I count three score, my lord,” a grizzled grey-beard, with a scar running from forehead to chin answered. Crawulf watched as they formed a battle line, three deep. The clatter of wooden shields locking together reverberated around the rock-strewn grassland. Wind bearing the smells and sounds of the sea made his eyes water as he stared at the strangers.

  “We will easily outrun them, my lord, and return with a larger force.”

  Crawulf ignored his man’s words as he tugged at the end of his beard. Something did not sit right here, he thought. He watched as the opposing force began moving slowly towards his small band of horse-men, beating their weapons off their shields. Crawulf was familiar with the rhythm – the symphony of battle.

  “Aye,” he finally agreed, “they are too many. We will return with more men and chase these whoresons to the bottom of Baltagor’s realm. Even so, it left a bitter taste in his mouth to run from the challenge of battle as insults and the barking jeers of men filled the air. “I will have all of their heads placed on spikes and left for the sea air to rot the flesh from their skulls,” he snarled. It hurt even more to know that the three would-be assassins had slipped from his grasp.

  “Gods protect us,” one of the men gasped. Crawulf swung around in his saddle just as a noise like thunder rolled over them. More shapes darkened the horizon as mounted men crested a hill behind them. “Trapped,” the same man spat.

  Trap, the word crept into his head. “This smells of trickery and deceit,” he growled. “Ride!” he barked then, kicking his mount’s flanks.

  A black cloud suddenly launched into the air above the shield-wall and travelled at speed towards the fleeing horse-men. A hail of arrows rained down on them. Most clattered harmlessly off mail armour. Some though found a mark leaving three riderless horses running amongst Crawulf’s group of housecarls. Warriors ran to intercept them, while behind the same number again of horsemen galloped towards them. A horse screeched and then its legs collapsed bringing down its rider. Crawulf kicked his own mount and vaulted the stricken beast and man, as more arrows studded the ground around him. He wheeled in the opposite direction to turn away from the warriors attempting to intercept him. This is no way to die, he thought and turned back again, pointing his horse directly at the line of warriors. He drew his sword, sensing his men around him do the same, even as they urged their mounts onwards.

  “Kill the bastards!” he shouted over the din of battle.

  “Crawulf!” his men roared back, and “Wind Isle!”

  The small band of horsemen formed a line as they galloped towards the enemy. As one, they lowered the points of their swords, aiming them at the line of shields before them. Behind them mounted warriors whipped and shouted at their own horses, eager to join the battle.

  For Crawulf, everything slowed down, even as he sped towards the wall of round wooden shields and bristling spear points. His mind empty of all thought as instinct and battle-sense took over. He heard a roaring sound like the ocean breaking over rocks as the familiar battle-rage overcame him. Then, it was chaos. The sound of iron beating on wood and mail, of men screaming and dying sang loudly in his ears as he smashed through the line, swinging his sword at all who stood in his way. His horse reared and trampled a warrior who tried to block him, while he swept the head off another with a single blow, the momentum of the charge adding the strength of a war-horse to his stroke.

  The line was thin and the charging band broke through to the other side, leaving devastation in their wake. They had not emerged unscathed either, two more of Crawulf’s men had fallen, leaving only six left alive. All were bloodied from both their own wounds and of the men they had killed. Another charge and the spearmen would break. They had advantage of numbers, but facing down the charge of mounted warriors on horses bred for battle is no easy thing. The large group of riders were now almost upon them. Now this is a way to die, he thought, as a bitter smile touched his lips. Sucking in deep breaths, he prepared for one more charge.

  “Jarl Crawulf,” the scarred grey-beard spoke up. He had fought alongside Crawulf, and his father before him, for a score and ten years, earned the scar in defence of his jarl while raiding in lands to the far south. His name was Jarnheim. “Ride, my lord, this is not a place for you to fall.” Their eyes met, and Crawulf read the implacable strength there. The resolve to die. “Go, we will buy what time we can. Avenge us!” He roared the last part as the remaining men dug their heels into the flanks of their mounts and turned to face the enemy again.

  Crawulf paused for only a heartbeat. It cut deeper than any blade to flee the battle, leaving his own men to die for his sake. Dying with them though would serve no purpose. “Ha!” He slapped his mount’s rump with the flat of his blade, not looking back as the sounds of screaming men and horses washed over him, ending all too briefly.

  Keeping low in the saddle, he raced towards the coast, if for no other reason than the way back to his castle was barred by mounted warriors. He knew they were following him, could hear them urging their own beasts to keep pace with him. When he glanced over his shoulder he could see them, all too close for his liking. As the wind grew in intensity carrying the salty smell of the sea and white puffs of foam, he knew his horse was tiring. He had ridden him hard in the pursuit of the assas
sins, rode him into battle and now he had reached the end of his endurance.

  The great grey sea stretched out before him all the way to the horizon where it became one with a cloud-filled sky the colour of iron. If only he rode Greystorm, the mighty steed of Alweise, who could sprout wings and carry his master across the sky.

  Man and beast slowed as his horse’s heart could take no more. He slid from the saddle, leaving the sweating and panting animal and dragged his sword from its scabbard. The riders made a semi-circle in front of him. He glared at their triumphant faces. Behind him was a cliff and beyond that the ocean for as far as the eye could see. Four men dismounted. All hefted great double-bladed Nort-axes.

  Crawulf spat and planted his feet firmly in the ground. More than one would die before he fell. The four circled him warily. All knew of the fearsome reputation of Crawulf and his prowess with a blade. He snarled and leapt towards the one closest, swinging his sword as he did so. He was rewarded with a cry of pain as one of his assailants dropped to his knees. Before he could deliver a killing blow, the other three rushed him. He parried one axe and kicked out at another attacker before pain erupted in his head. He staggered back, his sword slipping from his fingers. He heard a laugh as he tried to keep his balance. A blurred silhouette of a figure on horseback dominated his vision.

  “Good-bye, Jarl Crawulf.”

  He had the briefest sensation that he was flying, he could taste the brine as water washed over him, just before all went black.

  Tomas: Woodvale Village

  Tomas stepped over the bodies of the two guards and walked into the burnt-out rubble that was once his home, now little more than a fire-blackened shell. His jaw was set hard in grim determination as he picked through the destroyed wreckage of his belongings. Nothing it seemed had survived the fire. Out back his workshop remained unscathed, although the door hung open and he could already see the carnage caused by the magistrate’s guards. He eyed the mess with a cold detachment, no longer caring about his life as the town blacksmith. His eyes quickly scanned for the hidden hatch beneath a workbench. He heaved the bench away from the wall, grunting with the effort as pain flared in his shoulder.

  “So, two men dead and in sight of the entire village.” Tomas turned around to see the grey-robed priest standing in the doorway. He sagged against the bench, taking deep breaths as he grimaced in pain.

  “I did not start this. This was brought to my door!” Tomas spat bitterly. “Do you think I want this? I was happy here… we were happy…” He trailed off as memories of his life with Aliss tumbled through his mind. “This valley was my home. They’ve taken that from me, they will not take Aliss too!”

  “Tomas! Tomas!” Rorbert cried from outside before coming to a sharp halt in the doorway. “Tomas? What have you done?”

  Tomas ignored the village elder and returned his attention to the hidden hatch. He knelt down and opened it before hauling out the wooden chest.

  “Go,” Brother Joshan said to the village elder, “saddle the soldiers’ horses and pack supplies for a number of days in the saddlebags.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Just do it!” the priest snapped. Rorbert looked to Tomas who nodded slowly. Reluctantly the old man backed away from the workshop.

  “You are not coming with me,” Tomas said.

  “Ha! Even if I wished to I’m getting far too old for such adventures,” Brother Joshan answered. He walked slowly over and watched as the blacksmith swung open the lid of the chest. “It all ends here,” he said, looking at the contents.

  “Yes,” Tomas answered. He fished out a sheathed sword and placed it on the bench, before holding up a dull grey shirt of interlocked metal rings.

  “Does it still fit?” the priest asked.

  “Aye,” Tomas nodded, “it still fits.”

  “Not many men get a second or even a third chance. There will be no turning back from this.” The priest wrapped long, almost skeletal fingers around Tomas’ arm; his grip was like iron. “You made a good life here. You could do the same somewhere else.”

  “A life with Aliss,” the blacksmith replied. “It was she who gave me the second chance. I will not abandon her now.”

  Joshan released his hold on the younger man, nodding sadly. “Well, it’s probably safe to tell you this now – you were a terrible blacksmith!”

  Tomas laughed and then winced as he felt the wound in his shoulder stretch with every movement. Brother Joshan smiled.

  “Will you tell Rorbert?”

  “The truth? All of it?”

  “Aye, he deserves that much,” Tomas replied.

  “He will take it hard,” Joshan said. The blacksmith’s head dropped, before he slowly nodded. “Let me take a look at that shoulder before you ruin all my work with that mail shirt.” Tomas stripped off his shirt and sat still while the old priest probed his wound. At first, darts of pain shot through him as prodding fingers pulled and tightened stitches. Then a new sensation trickled into his upper body. He felt a warmth creep through him, easing the pain, giving him back strength.

  “Did you not take a vow never to use magic again?” he asked enjoying the relief from pain.

  “Aye, well, the king may frown upon the use of magic by his subjects, and the abbot may wonder why a simple monk has much success with fighting infections with poultices and a few wild herbs, but sometimes it is hard to just watch.”

  “The king is a hypocrite and a fool,” Tomas declared.

  “Such talk will see your head on the executioner’s block,” Brother Joshan tut-tutted. Tomas glanced over his shoulder and out of the open door, to where two of the magistrate’s guards lay dead in the street.

  “I think it’s too late to worry about that now.”

  The priest chuckled then, as both of them turned at the sound of footsteps. “The All Father watch over and protect you,” the old priest said and made a protective sign on the blacksmith’s forehead.

  Rorbert walked cautiously into the workshop. “The horses are ready for you,” he said.

  Tomas stood up testing his shoulder by rolling his arm back and forth. He nodded in satisfaction and dressed quickly. As well as the mail shirt in the chest there was a padded leather jerkin to be worn under the mail, a round helm with nose guard, and a dagger with a thick blade housed in a leather sheath. Once dressed, he attached the dagger to his belt and strapped it and the sword around his waist. All the while, Rorbert stood watching in silence, his eyes questioning.

  He clasped the village elder on the shoulder as he walked past. “I am sorry, old friend. I think it unlikely we will meet again.”

  “I-I don’t understand,” the old soldier stammered.

  “Brother Joshan will explain. When you hear the truth, try not to think too hard of me.” Tomas climbed aboard a dapple grey gelding and took the reins of a chestnut mare in his hand—a mount for Aliss. He kicked his heel into the horses flank and left, without a backward glance; the valley and the life of a blacksmith.

  He pushed the horses as fast as he dared without killing them, they would be little use to him if they came up lame on the journey, or collapsed from exhaustion, even so, he fought hard the feelings of frustration threatening to overwhelm him. He knew he was at least two days ride from Flagston. Tomas could picture the magistrate’s keep at the heart of the busy market town, where he lived and dispensed justice for the region. Although he was answerable to his lord, and he to the king, in the Valley and surrounding lands, the magistrate was the ultimate power, he who could condemn a man, or woman to death, empowered to dispense the king’s justice and collect taxes due to the duke.

  There would be a trial, Tomas thought as he stared into his small campfire. Dry wood cracked as orange flames swayed in a hypnotic dance before him. There was still time. He reflected on his life in the Valley with Aliss—a town blacksmith—an honest trade, it had been his father’s and his father’s before him. Tomas, too, had been marked to carry on the line, but in his youth, he had not the
patience for hard graft which offered little return. Although he learned how to beat metal into a new shape, to create and give it life, at his father’s shoulder, his head was full of dreams of adventure and lofty ideas beyond his station. “Can we make a sword, Father?” he asked once.

  “This is not the king’s armoury, boy. Horseshoes and broken wheels is our trade. Nails and scythes put bread on our table, not idle dreams of young boys.”

  Funny how things work out, he thought as he closed his eyes. An image of Aliss appeared before him, as she always did before he slept. She was smiling at him, her golden curls framing a soft face. “Beautiful,” he whispered in his sleep.

  When he woke in the morning she was there again, only this time her face was creased in terror as she pleaded for his help. He relived her molestation, at the hands of the magistrate and his guards, powerless to intervene. His eyes snapped open as rage boiled inside him. He had not slaved at his father’s forge, he had chosen a different path, learned a new set of skills, skills with which to better himself, to raise his station in life. Yet, he had returned to the forge and his own workshop. Where was he when he could have used those skills to defend his woman? To protect the life he shared with her? He was not there. He jumped up, cursed as he kicked earth over the smouldering fire.

  Before the sun had risen and the air still held the cold bite of night, he was mounted and on his way.

  A day and a half further in the saddle, through well-worn forest trails and over churned up, cultivated land, the grey walls of the town shimmered beneath a low lying sun. The bite of autumn was in the air, turning the forest into a dazzling display of orange and brown beneath a vibrant blue sky. Ahead of him a small convoy of wooden carts bounced along a crooked, uneven road, pulled by wretched looking, half-starved horses. Small children clung to the sides with grim determination to avoid being flung overboard, while their older siblings walked alongside with their parents and other relatives. Tomas pulled up alongside the first cart.